Doomwalker

by Kathryn Zurmehly

  “Scouts take new names as they leave the borders of Aeldamarc.” Her beautiful violet eyes grew distant and she smirked. “Everyone was annoyed with my choice, but everyone is annoyed with scouts in general, really. ‘Maryx’ means ‘lightning strike’ and it is…violent in a way not acceptable. I don’t remember my old name, but it was venerable and proper. It stopped mattering.”

  Her silence and distant look lingered. "Why are you staying?” Valen asked. He rested his fingers lightly on the bright, singing steel of the blade. “Your oaths, I understand that, but they make no sense, Maryx. They can't require you to fight demons.” He thought of Galian with his lost eye. Was he in one of the other rooms?

  “They don’t say that.” She was looking at him again. “They don’t not say that.” She snorted. “Ah, that’s a lie, they say that.”

  “Do the other elves follow them?”

  Her lips thinned into a grim line. “They swear them. It’s a tradition. There is little left of us but tradition. Follow...no, Aeldamarc does not follow the Seven-Paired Oaths of our gods. Our gods are dead, what difference does it make?”

  “But you do.”

  She shrugged. “I swore them.”

  “To dead gods.”

  “Angry ones, you might have noticed.”

  Valen stared at her over the sword. It did something to the light of the candles, casting it just silver enough to notice. It made the vague glow of Maryx’s purple eyes brighter. Why keep oaths to dead gods? Dead, angry, lingering, but not so powerful gods. He could kill them and he was a fool who’d gotten his arm broken by a madman. “How does Galian fare?’

  “He is well and hasn’t not been…except for the missing eye. That has rattled him, though, by the gods, he is making the best of it. Lack of depth perception prompts pity from some female quarters, it seems. Not that he knows what to actually do with it.”

  “That power healed him, then.”

  “I think so.” Valen handed her back the sword and she sheathed it. “It was spoke to me, in Lorcial, and told me you were Immor.”

  “You mentioned that in the Reliquary.”

  “I’m only more certain of it now. You were carrying heartstones and it must have used those to speak to me. Valen…once elves knew much of the powers beyond our gods, good and evil alike.”

  “‘All powers outside the gods are wicked.’” It was a recitation from the Guidances. “‘They come from beyond the world to devour all that we have built.’”

  “Most do, I’ll give you. Very few people know that lore, anymore, because it was declared forbidden by the Hierarchs long ago. Because powers are always dangerous regardless of motive.”

  He smiled tiredly. The veil he’d pushed back was drifting back down. “Who’s speaking in generalizations now?”

  Maryx snatched up his hand and squeezed, gentle but firm. “Listen, and remember. That power is concerned with you.”

  He wanted to sleep again. Immor. He remembered what it had told him—The Tribunal will have no mercy, Valen, so great is their fear—and he wanted to sleep again. “I thought maybe the invasion of the Reliquary would be what I did that would end the world.”

  “Civilization,” she corrected automatically, “It will be something you do, Valen, not something you fail to do. That’s the pain of it. I don’t know why a bright power is concerned with you, but be wary. They sow pain as well as the dark ones.”

  Sleep dropped down. He felt no desire to relinquish her hand. “Well,” he muttered in a half-thought, “Maybe there’s different kinds of pain.”

  “Sleep, Paladin Longshanks. You’re going to need it, I’m sure.”

  ✽✽✽

  Maryx let Valen sleep holding her hand for a few minutes before slipping it out and leaving the room.

  She leaned against a railing outside his room and watched warm tavern below, pulling her hood up. A bard was in the corner, telling a story to a few men and women between songs. A group of Paladins and hangers-on was playing some kind of game in another corner. That imbecile Galian was chatting to a wellborn lady, who was giving him an attentive if empty grin.

  He was probably not as well as he seemed. Losing an eye was a terrible wound, one that changed a life. He’d fought well, which was something, and was a brother in all but blood to Valen, so she’d have to keep an eye on him, she supposed. She sighed.

  There was no welcome for her down there. There would be one for Valen, though she wondered if he’d feel that way on his end.

  It wasn’t unpleasant to watch it all, though. She’d always rather liked these kinds of human places, though they were not her places. Little refuges carved out in the wide wilderness of the world, despite ice to the north, ice to the south, and wars old and new. Her own people never made places like that, only flickering moments of it.

  She wondered when she should return to the borders of Aeldamarc and report. Valen’s problem seemed to be over, but his fate certainly wasn’t. When he healed, he’d ride out to hunt godshards and demons. She’d have to follow. Perhaps point him towards Aeldamarc and report in the middle of the night, then get on with it until the final crash came.

  She needed a drink.

  He did not deserve what was coming. It was impossible to know what it would look like, but she had a strange sense of its dreadful shape. Looking down at the Sunshield’s common room, she decided none of this world really deserve what was coming.

  She should leave before Beriskar showed up. Or Mulvane, she supposed. Three thousand northern peasants with pitchforks would complicate things, though they wouldn't level the walls Valen was an invalid. It wouldn’t be too hard to tie up and throw him over a saddle. He’d be annoyingly heavy, as Valen was many annoying things.

  The tavern door was tossed open forcefully, rattling on its hinges. A young gray-clad runner stood there breathing hard.

  Maryx rested her right hand on her sword hilt, the other clutching the rail. Most of the Paladins stood, knowing trouble when they saw it.

  The boy looked around quickly. “There’s an army outside the walls,” he said, “Beriskar. Commander Brandtalus has ordered the refugees to come inside the gates before midnight.” Beriskar must be within sight, but not within range. “All Lyrican Paladins must report to the Crownsguard Headquarters. The Temple will aid in the defense of the city.”

  He was lucky not to get trampled under the rush of blue cloaked men out the door.

  Maryx turned to Valen’s door stiffly, laying a hand on the carved wood and glaring at it.

  So much for that plan.

  14

  “I will say it, since no one else will,” Maryx said, matching Valen’s long strides as they walked towards the gate, “Your High Priestess is a fool.”

  He slowed briefly to adjust his sling. “It’s a great honor to ride out as guard for the High Priestess.”

  “Yes, two injured Paladins as guards, one missing an eye, the other with his main hand useless. That’s not an invitation for attack.”

  “She wants to deceive them into believing she’s vulnerable.”

  “There’s little deception about it.” She took a quick skip-step and planted herself in front of him. He stopped just a breath from colliding with her. “Since I’ve known you, Valen, you have had the worst luck of any living thing. This is not a good idea.”

  “I know, but I must follow orders.” He smiled tiredly at her. “I might need your help to get on the horse.” And then he stepped around her.

  Maryx glowered at the milling crowd on the street. Colorful Crownsholders mingled with what dirtied refuges that had managed to get into the city before the gates had shut. Uncertainty and fear were heavy in the air. Members of the Crownsguard were explaining the location of food stores in booming voices. Maryx wondered how long those would last in so vast a city with new mouths to feed.

  She turned to catch up to Valen and follow him to where a small retinue of Crownsguard, Temple guards, and assorted warrior clerics waited. It was not a small party.

>   Galian waved. He was dressed in bright Lyrican finery, with a new sword at his side—as was Valen, in fact. The patch over the idiot’s right eye was as incongruous as Valen’s sling. He handed the reins of a gray horse to Valen as he approached. “You seem better.”

  Valen was staring at the eye patch. He hadn’t seen Galian since the tunnels. “How is…” He gave up on tact. “How do you see?”

  Galian answered with a bitter smile. “Less.”

  “Can you still fight?”

  “Probably better than you can.” He gestured to the sling. “I appreciate the honor the High Priestess is giving us, I enjoy the show of gratitude, I do, but she should probably take two non-crippled Paladins.”

  “That’s what I told him,” Maryx growled, taking the reins from Valen and handing them back to Galian, “The Commander and the others should be along from their latest useless meeting shortly. Be careful about that arm when you mount up. It’s well splinted, but I think the pain of jarring it will injure your dignity further.”

  He gave her a soft-edged glare, which she ignored, the gripped the saddle with his one arm. His face went blank, likely because he had realized that this was going be difficult. Maryx came around and waited for him to start hauling himself up before she helped him the rest of the way.

  He managed to settle himself into the saddle with something like dignity and only a few winces. Galian passed him the reins and he resettled his sling. “If it comes to it…” he started, frowning.

  “We run,” Galian said grimly, clumsily mounting his own gray horse. The Temple had opted to be showy, decking out their horses, their guards, and their clerics in parade gear. “You haven’t seen the army yet, have you?”

  “No.”

  A trumpet sounded, and the main procession came trotting through the crowd. Commander Brandtalus led the group on a great bay warhorse, unarmored, of course, his mantle draped over his shoulder and arm, and carrying a great white banner. Behind him streamed perhaps twenty clerics, the most senior of their respective gods. It wasn’t the full fifty-four, but from their dress it seemed to be most of the major ones.

  It would be very impressive. It might also be very dead. Beriskar might well have had his own son killed, after all.

  “I’ll be on the wall,” Maryx told Valen, “If you have to run, I’ll cover you from there with what arrows I can find.”

  “You can shoot that far?”

  Human bows couldn’t, not really, and her shoulder still felt strained. “I’ll find the best bow I can and try, anyway.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Just try not to die, Valen.” She tucked her cloak around her and faded into the crowd, maneuvering her way through and up the stairs to the rampart. The Crownsguard tried to stop her, but a glare and the sight of her sword got her passage to the wall above the gate. The army at the gates made them less picky about mercenaries and she could see many rough figures up among the young uniformed Crownsguard.

  The wall wasn’t quite packed with defenders. Maryx snatched a bow off a rack over the objections of the small red-haired guardswoman who seemed to own it.

  “You can’t take that, mercenary!”

  Maryx showed her teeth in a tense smile and the girl paled. “My own was lost on the road and I need to watch my friend’s back. Your quiver, please.” She handed it over and Maryx wrestled her way to the front of the ranks. The rampart in front of her was broad enough to stand on it if she had to get more room to shoot.

  Beyond the farmlands, Beriskar’s army swarmed like ants as they entrenched themselves, clearing trees with shocking efficiency. The mass sprawled in a ring all around the city walls. Crownshold was under siege. All activity in the fields and refugee camp had ceased. A kind of hush seemed to hang over the land, despite the murmur of the city behind her and the rumble of the army’s distant labor.

  Seeing it was quite different from hearing about it.

  It was not good. Crownshold drew water from springs within the walls, gifts from their gods, and no one seemed worried about limited food, not yet. No forces stood outside the great walls and much of the refugee camp had been left standing, a small maze of hastily erected lean-tos and tents. Humans had not fought any sieges in twenty years. Crownshold itself had never been assaulted. Even if Beriskar had brought no siege weapons, it was not prepared, as far as Maryx’s admittedly thin education on the matter could tell.

  The great gate creaked open briefly below and the diplomatic party set forth. Another set of riders in Beriskar colors appeared from the refugee camp as if the Crownsholders had summoned them from thin air. They were all armed, hardened knights, several with those crossbow weapons she’d been seeing in recent years. Several people around her gasped or cursed.

  They, also, carried a white banner, but it was a pale rag tied round a spear, perhaps a cut up dress.

  Maryx pulled an arrow from the quiver, but did not knock it. She didn’t want to provoke anything, but she was going to be prepared.

  Commander Brandtalus trotted over to them, bold as a lion, holding his white banner. The crowd on the wall grew hushed, listening. They wouldn’t hear much, but elven senses were far keener than human ones, and Maryx paid close attention.

  “Welcome again to Crownshold, Lord Beriskar,” Commander Brandtalus said, planting his banner by his side.

  “It’s a pleasure to return,” answered a wiry, older man riding up next to his banner-bearer. He looked like he could barely move in his armor. A helmet clanked where it was attached to his saddle near his knee, pink and blue ribbons streaming from its top. He did not seem worried. “I’m glad to see the Temple has also sent out its luminaries to welcome me.”

  Valen’s High Priestess, tied to her saddle, and the shrouded death priest led those luminaries forward. Maryx grit her teeth; there was Valen, right up front, his arm in a sling.

  “We have been awaiting your arrival,” the death priest said in a raspy, hissing voice.

  “I’m quite sure. I will do away with the pleasantries, Commander, your holinesses. Surrender Crownshold to me.”

  Maryx tensed. She felt caught in a trap through no act of her own, left to watch helplessly as these strangers bent her fate and the fate of all she cared about. It was a bitter and heavy reality hat she wanted to struggle against until the fight broke her bones.

  “You seem to think we’re in a position of weakness here,” Commander Brandt said.

  “It certainly seems that you are.”

  “You cannot shatter these god-wrought walls. We have food and water aplenty. The full forces of the Crownsguard and the will of the Temple are against you.”

  “I’m not concerned.” He whistled once, loud and sharp. Somewhere not far away within the fields a horn went off.

  The busy mass of soldiers parted as a long line of oxen stepped forward hauling three of the most massive catapults Maryx had ever seen. They’d just been...conjured, it seemed, from nothingness. A group of men rolled a very large bolder up near one and set about loading it. These were not the obscure toys of nobles seen at festivals. These were meant to bring down the walls of Crownshold.

  “I can tell from your silence that your scouts didn’t tell you about those. It’s nice to know the scattered pattern of travel worked, even if it did cost me.”

  “If the city surrenders,” the Commander said slowly, “What will happen?” High Priestess Sola’s head whipped around to him.

  “Things shall remain largely the same. I must detain these members of the Temple within the Councilhouse to ensure cooperation, of course.” He paused, a gauntlet fidgeting with the ribbons streaming off his helmet. “Also, one of the walls must come down. One way or another.”

  Ruin the defenses of Crownshold? Why in the world would a conqueror want to do that?

  “I understand the terms you offer. We must retire to discu—“

  “Discuss nothing!” Lyrica’s High Priestess snapped. She lunged in her saddle at Beriskar. “Do you see my broken Paladins, milord? How
they stand strong despite their wounds and do the will of Lyrica even in the face of such odds as you present me? So too it is with Crownshold!”

  Beriskar stared at her, then rotated his armored torso clumsily to look at his army for a moment. “Ah. See, there is no point to either discussion or defiance. I merely wanted to ensure you didn’t interfere.”

  The men loading the boulder scrambled. The machine's arm went flying up, seeming slower than it was, and the massive boulder went flying towards a distant part of the wall.

  It took a long time to come. Maryx saw Beriskar toss down his white flag, laughing, and then he and his entourage vanished in a wave of black smoke. She felt the press of the soldiers around her as others ran away from the oncoming boulder. She watched Valen wheel around alongside his High Priestess…

  The boulder slammed into the wall with an impossible crash, heavy stone against heavy stone.

  Maryx bounded up onto the rampart in the panic and nocked her readied arrow. Below, Commander Brandtalus had dropped the fine white banner into the dirt. The army had begun to advance, and he shouted for the Temple clerics to return to the gate.

  Soldiers came slashing their way through the refugee camp from where they must have been hiding. They charged the party and the Commander halted in his retreat to draw his sword.

  Fool. Valen made to turn, a fool as well, drawing his own blade with his left hand, preparing to fend off a soldier with a greatsword.

  Maryx sighted down the arrow—not quite perfectly straight, useless human craftsmanship—and fired, catching the man in the throat. Valen glanced up at her glare as she drew another arrow and returned to retreat through the barely open gates.

  Commander Brandtalus and his great bay stallion danced amid a gathering swarm. Maryx drew the bowstring back again and fired, dropping another soldier.

  It didn’t matter. An arrow drove into his collarbone. Then another, and another. The bay went down kicking and screaming as he kept swinging at the surrounding soldiers, pierced many times.

  Maryx bared her teeth and turned to the Crownsguard on the wall. They were huddled tight, with a frightened stoicism. Those who’d cracked had been shuffled off elsewhere. Let none doubt the professionalism of the Crownsguard.