Xavier reared up, pulled his horn, and gave two sharp blasts. His men streamed past him, thundering into the rear rank of enemy soldiers and freeing up the Arwah for another round of Ves chants.
The Jacobsford line shattered.
Two more cries from the horn. The last of the reinforcements—the survivors from the Mal'shedaal attack—ran to join the melee, now pushing into the heart of the temple square. Xavier's men slammed into the enemy from the rear while Tollin's held the line. Caught between them, peppered with Ves and targeted columns of Godsflame, the enemy was ground to remnants. Those remnants threw down their weapons and pled for mercy.
"Mother." Azjbel staggered toward her as Xavier called for the prisoners—especially the few surviving clerics—to be bound.
"I see you." Lyseira took his hand. The Bahiri man had lived nearly forty winters, his frosted hair the living proof, and he called her Mother. "I know." His eyes had gone aimless, roaming emptily through the dark. "You gave everything you had. You got us through. Now it's time to rest." She glanced around at her other Kesprey and saw most had gone blind. The Arwah, too, were largely spent—bloody and shaking, some swaying on their feet.
Not Harth, though, she noticed. Blood crusted the grooves of his face, painted the sides of his neck in a macabre trail from his ears. But his eyes were lucid, his balance steady. And he had chanted more in that last fight than any of them. Strange. She had never seen Syntal or Angbar recover from that much chanting without a night's rest. Never.
Xavier and Tollin approached, pulling her out of her reverie. A huge smile broke over her face. She pulled the other Kesprey into an exuberant hug, then pushed him back and demanded, "Where were you?"
"We decided to make our stand at the temple. It's the most defensible."
"No, the bridge is the most defensible—didn't you get the King's bird?"
Tollin peered at her. "What bird?"
"They'll be needing us back at the front," Xavier cut in. "Regroup fast. As soon as the captives are under control we make for the river."
"I don't have many Kesprey left," Lyseira said. "Me . . . maybe Shaviid, and we're nearly spent. The others are blind. They can't rejoin the fight."
"Bring them to the temple," Tollin said. "We've barricaded the windows and most of the entrances—it should be safe."
The Captain turned to him. "How about your Kesprey? How many can still fight?"
"I'll find out."
Lyseira sent Azjbel and the others with Tollin to rest. Xavier ordered the remaining horses rounded up and had as many troops as possible mount up, including her. Then he took command of Tollin's remaining force, and they pressed on to the river.
The Colmon streets were still empty—that was a good sign—but the apprehension in the air was palpable. No one knew what they were riding into. Lyseira worried about her Kesprey, but those fears quickly evolved into bigger ones. Did Isaic's people get the bridge down? Or had they been overrun? It was possible she and her unit could arrive to find the battle already lost, the near shore flooded with Jacobsford soldiers. At least that Mal'shedaal is gone, she thought, and her heart caught. What if it hadn't left the battle—what if it had simply gone to the river?
What if it was still there?
She turned to shout a warning to the Captain, but they had already arrived.
The slope of the river basin and a fortunate clearing of the clouds afforded them a glimpse of the battle, bathed in blue moonlight. Isaic's force held, but just barely; the bridge was down, but it looked like much of the opposing host had made it across before it fell. Now Isaic's remaining troops stretched in a thin line to keep them from charging the town, and she saw no flashes of Godsflame or war chants. If there were any Kesprey or chanters still alive in the battle, they were spent.
Captain Xavier took in the situation with a quick sweep of his eyes. Then he put the bugle to his lips and released three alternating blasts: long-short-long.
The cavalry roared and flooded down the hill, sweeping Lyseira along with them. When they reached the foot of the hill, the cavalry waded in toward the front line while she held back. She no longer had a clear view of the fight. She was back to healing when and how she could; the battle was in Akir's hands now. She waited and healed only those who would die without it; waded back through the Helscape of darkness and blood.
Until at last, just as the eastern sky began to lighten, they won.
ii. Helix
"Lyseira?"
He had no idea where he was. A tent of some kind, still on the northern battlefield or maybe back on the western one. Shivers racked him.
"Helix." Her voice ached with relief; he saw that she would cross the tent toward him, pull him into a hug, and when she did he leaned into her embrace. Syntal and Seth were forgotten. For a heartbeat they were dear friends again, finding each other in the chaos of the aftermath. "We won," she breathed. "Can you believe it? We did it. We won."
"I heard," he said. "But they didn't." His last vision—one that had blasted him loose from reality and sent him wandering Colmon's streets for the final hours of the battle—flared in his memory, and he winced.
"What do you mean? Who didn't?"
At his words her face would fall, grief and disbelief striking at once. He forced himself to speak them. "Iggy. Melakai. They tried, but they didn't win. They couldn't have.
"I saw Her."
Lyseira hesitated. He knew the word on her lips, knew the weight and the terror of it. "Revenia?"
"I saw Her come out of a house in the Shientel Valley." She had been beautiful as a bonfire—the crook of Her nose and the wide set of Her eyes overshadowed by the intensity of Her presence—and naked as a force of nature. It was the birthmark on Her shoulder that somehow made him certain: twin crescents, back to back, with a line between them.
"But that . . . the Shientel Valley?" Desperation crept into her voice, unmistakable. "Iggy said the altar was in Tal'aden. They were going there to destroy it. How could She be in the Shientel Valley?"
Her face would drain of blood; his explanation would leave her ashen. "I don't know. But She was. I saw the cabin, Lyseira. The creek outside it. It was so clear . . . as clear as Southlight. And the door opened, and She came out. I saw it before it happened. By now, I know it has."
"But I don't . . . how . . . what about Iggy? Elthur?"
"I don't know. I didn't see them. But if She was alive, I can only assume . . ." He couldn't form the words. She didn't need him to.
"I have to go." She would turn and hurry off. She wouldn't be able to get away from him fast enough. "There are other wounded, and I can still . . . I'll be back later."
He nodded. In his vision, she had already left.
iii. Lyseira
No. No. No.
If Revenia had returned, if the Fatherlord had somehow managed to bring Her back . . .
No. He misunderstood. A cabin in the Shientel Valley? It makes no sense. The visions are new to him. He doesn't understand.
She hurried out of Helix's tent and into the next one, where a number of the night's wounded still awaited a miracle. Everything came to her through a tiny window, one that drifted like a peephole through the swarm of livid scars on her vision, but it was enough to make out Harth. He was stretched out on a cot with one of Xavier's medics kneeling next to him, changing the bandage on a nasty gash in his right thigh. The wounded chanter saw her and winced.
"It was late in the fight," he said. "Caught me by surprise. I thought we'd cleared them all out and here comes this one last bastard with a death wish. I should've been impervious, but I'd dropped the spell. Thought we'd sehking won."
"Hold still," the medic said.
"Someone else got him before I could, or I would've just―" Harth hissed through his teeth as the medic cleaned the wound. "Ah, sehk. Did you really have to do that again?" A sheen of bright sweat coated his face, but his eyes . . . she would've expected them to be hyper-real after his night of chanting, but instead, she could barely t
hem out in the tent's dim light.
"Is there anyone on the verge of death?" Lyseira asked the medic.
"No." He glanced up at her. "No one's in good condition here, but they can all hold out for a day."
"M'sai." She looked at Harth. "We would've lost without you last night. Your work . . ." She swallowed and said the words. "And Syntal's work. They may have saved the kingdom."
He met her gaze, his eyes unreadable. "Well. I'll be sure to tell her."
"Harth . . ."
"Go help the wounded," he said. "It's all right. Just forget it."
"Wait," Lyseira said to the medic. "It's a'fin. I'll handle this one."
"You don't have to," Harth said.
"No. Please. I want to."
He leaned back and closed his eyes, resigned. Lyseira laid a hand to his wound and called the fire.
It scorched his flesh like molten metal.
"Ah!" Harth snatched his leg away, hissing. "What in sehk?"
The miracle took its toll. Her window of vision flared to ash. As the medic echoed Harth's outcry and everyone in the room turned to look at them, the last thing she saw was the smoke curling from Harth's skin.
29
i. Iggy
He relived it all in his dreams.
The world spun around him, punctuated with the echo of shattered glass. The ground rushed up like a rearing tsunami. The withering pain of his impalement, the nearness of death as it licked its lips and prepared for him. He had become the pigeon, or maybe the sparrow—something that had let him lurch away from the leaping ground before it claimed him—but every beat of his wings had felt like it was about to tear his body in half.
He had careened over the square, a trail of blood behind him; close enough to the ground that he saw the guards, kneeling over Elthur's wrecked corpse, spare him a suspicious glance. A few had given chase, so he had limped through the air until he reached the nearest street. Plummeted to it like a fallen star with the guards shouting after him.
Became the simple alley cat, black and lithe but still dragging his pain along. They hadn't seen him change. They were still looking for the bird. He found a secluded place to hide and to heal, his herbs speaking an ancient language of mending as he worked them into his wounds. Recovered, he became the bird once more and flew back, but he was too late.
His nightmares replayed this part again and again: the whole square awash in divine moonlight; the broken windowsill tilting into view as he climbed the air only to reveal an empty room; the floor smeared with blood, much of it already drying; the altar empty of anything except a puncture hole that had nearly cracked the thing in half, all its runes dark; the certainty, the horrific certainty, that all his companions had failed and died, that Revenia was stalking the halls even as he watched.
It had taken only a few minutes to escape the city walls. He'd been tempted, then, to set out for Ordlan Green and stay there. To spend whatever remained of his days in a place of insurmountable beauty, to drink it in and relish it for as long as it survived. But before he decided, he set down and plunged his thoughts into the earth.
The Mal'shedaal were still there. He could sense nothing of them except the depth of their insatiable rot; was forced to turn away from their presence before he vomited. So overpowering was it that he nearly missed the other presence, familiar now as it was before, and close. Seth.
He had found his friend on the eastern road, a hooded figure picking its way through a village abutting the city wall. He had lit next to him and become the man. Pulled back his friend's hood to find the figure beneath was a walking skeleton. Long dead. It looked at him and wailed.
"Iggy."
They were saying his name, the villagers all around him murmuring accusations.
"Iggy. It's a dream."
His eyes flicked open to the grey light of dawn. Seth loomed above him, concern etched in his eyes.
"You're sure he killed Her?" Iggy said. "With Helix's sword—Lars's sword? You're sure?"
"I saw it. I told you. She fell to dust. Broke the altar, too."
Iggy pushed himself up to a sitting position. His back and the butt of his breeches were soaked with morning dew. He breathed in the cold morning air, let it scour the stain of the nightmare away.
"You all right?" Seth asked.
Iggy caught himself staring at the grass and forced himself out of it. "Yeah." He got to his feet, felt his muscles aching in protest. "You?"
Seth nodded.
"Anything in the night? Soldiers, clerics?" Mal'shedaal? He left the last word unsaid; they both knew neither of them would still be here if the Mal'shedaal had found them.
"No. A lot of activity in the city, but I think we're clear." Seth fell quiet, deliberating, then said, "You're sure you didn't sense Kai?"
Iggy's last meditation, the one that had let him track down Seth, hadn't revealed anyone else. He had traveled up Thakhan Dar with Melakai, spent months with the man. If he were still there, I should've sensed him. Iggy shook his head.
"Then I have to go back to Keswick. I'm the only one who actually saw what happened."
"I thought the King banished you."
Seth nodded a concession to this, but went on. "They have to know what happened. Takra deserves to know. And I . . ." His eyes locked on a distant flock of geese, honking noisily as they finally returned south after the long winter. "I have other reasons, too."
Iggy felt like he should argue because it wouldn't be safe for Seth to go back. He could be imprisoned again, or worse. Or maybe he was supposed to argue because he was supposed to be mad at him for killing Syntal.
After everything that had happened last night, though, all he could manage was, "M'sai."
"What about you?" Seth said. "You have to get word to Ordlan Green?"
"I do," Iggy allowed. "But . . ." He thought of traveling alone again, of more lonely days spent in the air, more cold nights in silence. "I'll make sure you get home safe first."
"I'll just slow you down, Igg. I can take care of myself."
Iggy fished for his friend's gaze and finally caught it. "I'll make sure," he repeated deliberately, "you get home safe first."
This time Seth accepted the offer. They set out together.
ii. Harth
He wanted to talk to Syntal.
She would know why Lyseira's miracle had burned him, or at least be willing to theorize with him. He was sure the forbidden chant had something to do with it, he just didn't know why. The two of them would pore over its every syllable if that's what it took, listening to each other's ideas, playing off each other to come ever closer to the truth. But in her mind it would only be one problem; she'd also be bursting with improvements to the Arwah's battle strategy, would already have a dozen ideas for new chants that would help in the coming war. Her eyes would be mischievous and daring, her lips full and soft. He craved the heat of her presence.
"Harth?" Lyseira pressed. They had been two days on the road, making their slow way back to Keswick. Now she had come to his wagon at dusk, refusing to wait for him any longer—cornered him while he was weak and still unable to walk. She asked her question again. "What happened?"
"I told you, I don't know."
"You must have some idea. Healing miracles don't burn. Everyone is talking―"
"Can't you just leave him alone?" Rebecca cut in. Eleven Arwah had set out for Colmon, including him, and four had survived—including her. She'd grown protective of him, moving always closer to him, and he hadn't dissuaded her like he should have. It made him feel dirty, like he was betraying Syntal's memory. "He led the Arwah at the battle, and we won. Why isn't that enough for you?"
"This is between Harth and myself." Lyseira sought his eyes again. "If we could just go somewhere to talk―"
"No." You let him kill her, Harth thought. She was just trying to leave. She knew she'd done wrong. You should've stopped him. "I told you, I don't know anything—and what makes you think I'd tell you if I did? What if you didn't like the answer?
What then?"
She drew up. "Harth . . ."
"Seth already showed how the Church handles chanters who use the wrong spells. If a healing miracle burns one, that's a pretty clear omen, isn't it? Makes it pretty obvious what Akir wants. Why hold back?"
"You know that's not what I came here for."
"Then why come here at all?"
She glared. "You're not even curious why it happened?"
"Talking to you isn't going to help me figure out why it happened."
"How do you know that?" Lyseira sighed and took another tack. "Look, I'm not coming after you, m'sai? I don't think you did anything wrong. This isn't about that."
The faces of the men he'd killed with the forbidden chant flashed through his thoughts. If only you knew.
"But word is spreading around camp. It's going to keep spreading when we get back to Keswick. People are talking, Harth. They're saying things about you that . . ."
"When haven't they? People don't trust us."
"This is different. You won't come out of your wagon, but I hear them around camp. At meal times. This is . . . we have to nip this in the bud, or you're not the only one who will suffer. All the chanters will. People just . . . they don't understand."
Syn wouldn't like that. Part of the reason she had tried to leave was to protect the new chanters.
"M'sai." Harth made up his mind. "Then heal it." He lifted the hem of his robe, where his wounded leg was still bandaged, two days on. The medic had been tending to it, but it wasn't improving; if the spirits hadn't infested the wound yet, they would soon.
He'd surprised her. She looked at his leg, the burn from her last healing attempt still livid on his flesh, and then at him, a question in her eyes.
Of Dark Things Waking (The Redemption Chronicle Book 3) Page 48