by Matthew Ward
A Drazina nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Idle bastard, as usual.” Glibness turned bitter. “Get him out of here.”
As soldiers hurried to obey, Izack turned his attention on Sidara once more. “Don’t make me carry you. Folk’ll talk.”
She blinked, eyes snapping to focus for the first time, and allowed him to help her rise.
They joined the stumbling retreat, Izack half-carrying her and guiding her steps. Still the pursuit held off. Were Jack’s children afraid? Did such creatures feel fear? Or did they simply judge their duty done?
The answer came as Izack reached the crowded neck of the bridge, its form the yawning, groaning cry that had heralded Fellhallow’s first coming. Warned by horrified gasps, Izack stared back towards the slope, and a living forest again on the move.
“Blessed Lumestra,” breathed a Drazina.
What little of the soldiery had kept their order stumbled back across the bridge, eyes wide.
Heart ebbing further, Izack stared south across the bridge, at moorland thick with rout. Thousands had died on the hillside. Thousands more would perish to Fellhallow’s vengeance. But the bridge could be held. The gorge’s sides were steep; the Silverway strong. The bridge was all. And even an hour might make all the difference.
Funny how life offered choices that were no choice at all.
Ha-bloody-ha.
“Stand your damn ground!” bellowed Izack. “I said STAND!”
A few heeded, the muster field’s obedience deep in their bones. Conscripts. Drazina. Even a few Thrakkians. They weren’t Essamere – Lumestra, what he’d have given for that! – but they knew him, knew his voice. A score. One hundred. Two. Weary. Bloodied. Uniforms torn but backbones straight. The rest ran on, duty abandoned in hope of survival. So easy to become one of them. To cast down arms and flee. Easy, but impossible.
A soldier’s life wasn’t his own to spend. Others were his to save.
Izack shoved Sidara to the far bank, towards the Drazina bearing Lord Droshna from the field. “Get out of here, lass. Tell Droshna I wish…” What? That he’d listened to Josiri? That he’d argued harder against taking the field that day? That he’d joined his voice to Zephan’s and Sevaka’s back at Tarvallion? All of those things were true, but had come too late to count. No point in saying them now. “Tell him I wish our road had led elsewhere.”
“I can fight.” She started angrily back, a stumble making lie of the words. “I’m staying!”
“You can barely walk.” He flung out an arm to stop her, wincing as broken ribs shifted with even that small effort. “Lass, if you could do again what you did back there, I’d have you in a heartbeat. But you can’t, can you?”
She glared at him. “I—”
“Can you?”
“I have a sword.”
“A sword isn’t enough.” Setting lips level with her ear, he lowered his voice. “Droshna’s going to need you, especially after today. Don’t go throwing your life away out of pride.”
“I might say the same to you.”
Izack snorted. “Me? I already told him he’d need a new Lord Marshal before the day’s end. Should’ve kept my big mouth shut, shouldn’t I? Go. Don’t make me have you dragged away.”
She scowled, a wan flicker of gold leaving her eyes as soon as it arrived. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Izack conveniently forced a smile. “Try me.”
Sidara narrowed her eyes. Then without a word, she strode away.
“Good lass.” Spinning on his heel, Izack grabbed a sergeant by the shoulder and hauled her to the centre of the bridge. “Make the line! Shields tight!”
Little by little, the shield wall formed across the central arch. Stragglers took their places, weapons levelled. As the first strawjacks reached the far bank, a thrydaxe’s black pennant was found and raised high for Lumestra to see. Izack grunted approval and took to the front rank. Wasn’t a battle without a banner, even if it wasn’t your own. Time to be Essamere – to be a shield for those that couldn’t fight for themselves – one last time. A fellow could do worse. Maybe even atone for the mistakes that had led him to Argatha Bridge in the first place.
“All right, you dozy lot!” he roared. “Let’s make this one for the histories! Until Death!”
Argatha Bridge’s defenders held for long hours after the last of their routed fellows had vanished from sight. Melanna – alone upon the ridgeline save for a steed – watched the black pennant fall three times into the crackling mass of strawjacks, only for it to rise anew.
She couldn’t say why she felt compelled to bear witness. Some perversion of spirit, goading her to drink the bitter day to its dregs? Or perhaps it was regard for those who fought on against all odds? The kinship of the sword transcended all other loyalty. So hard to know, with her heart awash in relief and dread.
As brooding dusk drew in, the pennant fell for a fourth and final time, and did not rise. A triumphant, yawning groan echoed up from the riverside, and was met by another from Fellhallow’s eaves.
Turning her back on the charred and bloody field, Melanna hauled herself into the saddle. As she did so, she glimpsed a masked, gangling figure on the forest’s edge, ragged cloak gathered close, and green eyes blazing against the gathering dusk. He was gone as soon as seen, but the chill in Melanna’s bones lingered.
Lumendas, 14th Day of Dawntithe
We worry too much over eternity when it is the moments that count. A hundred chances pass us by each day, unremarked and unseen.
from the sermons of Konor Belenzo
Fifty-Four
Melanna heard the cheers long before she reached Tregard’s walls. Word of salvation had far outpaced the army, reversing hurried evacuation and filling the streets with adulation. Triumphal Gate had welcomed many a victorious army, though few so gladly. Songs rang out, confetti of dried petals and silvered paper streamed from rooftops. Flasks of tarakeet and Lasmanora whiskey were pressed into soldiers’ hands.
Jorcari and the others lost themselves to the embrace of loved ones they’d thought never to see again. Melanna watched from beneath Emperor Alfric’s banner, apart from it all, at once an Empress’ privilege and burden.
By the time she reached the marketplace, the celebrating populace had grown so thick that words were needed to clear passage. Jorcari at her side, she spurred ahead of the column.
“We have been tested, but we have triumphed!” She filled her voice with every scrap of confidence she could muster. “We have found enemies where we should have found friends, and allies in the unlikeliest places. A new dawn rises for Rhaled and for the Empire! Praise…”
She faltered as a new sight reached her eyes. An effigy at the marketplace’s heart. Old timbers covered in torn canopies, treated with woodstain, it towered over the crowds, arms spread wide and the smooth arc of its mask tilted heavenward. Artless though it was, there was no mistaking it as anyone other than Jack o’ Fellhallow. Melanna swallowed, a chill returning to her bones.
“Praise Ashana,” she finished, and hoped no one heard the tremor in her voice.
The crowd cheered, and at last parted. Melanna rode on alone.
Two figures waited at the top of the stairs, a half-circle of servants gathered three paces behind. Sera, white robes immaculate. Orova, her pallor healthier than at their last meeting, but walking with the aid of a stick and plainly ill at ease in a black and silver dress. A third, caring nothing for decorum, bounded down the steps two at a time, arms spread in greeting.
“Madda!”
Melanna left her fears in the saddle and threw her arms about her daughter, holding her tight enough to cheat even the Raven’s claim. She closed her eyes, banishing the cheer of the crowd as she had her fears, heeding instead the miracle of life dearer than her own. The warmth against her skin. Hurried breaths caught between excitement and fears of abandonment not yet forgotten, never committing fully to either.
“Did you miss me, Madda?” asked Kaila.
“In every
moment,” Melanna replied.
Yes, Jack would claim his due, but it was worth it. Bargain had bought Kaila’s future, and thousands more besides. And there were yet many long years in which to see her grow. Not as a fugitive or a hostage, but into an Empress who’d eclipse her mother in happiness and wisdom.
Kaila squirmed and pulled away, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Why are you crying?”
Melanna brushed her cheek. “Tears of joy, essavim. Nothing to burden yourself with.”
Kaila nodded happily, and allowed Melanna to lead her up the steps. Sera offered a low bow, Orova a nod; neither with any great friendliness.
“Am I to congratulate you on your victory?” said Orova sourly.
“I wish none of it had been necessary.” Melanna scratched surreptitiously at her left wrist, which itched something fierce. Her whole body was a mass of bruises and chafed skin – reminders of long hours in the saddle. “I don’t expect you to believe me.”
“Is Viktor among the dead?”
“Would it trouble you if he were?”
An eyelid flickered. “Your messenger claimed you sheltered those who fled. Is that true?”
“I ordered them freed once battle was done. They were no harm to anyone.” As the rout had gathered pace, Tressians had sought safety in the Hadari lines, less afraid of shadowthorns than demons. She’d ordered the ranks opened to them, and the strawjacks had lumbered off in search of other victims. Few of those taken had been the cold-eyed veterans of Davenwood and Ahrad. Girls and boys, mostly. Strong enough to hold a sword and stand the line. A mirror of the Imperial practice of tithing, and horrific in the reflection. Sparing them had come easily. “My war was never with your people, but factions within my own. I understand that now.”
Orova’s lip curled. “If you seek forgiveness, do so elsewhere.”
Irritation flared, but quarrelling with a guest was unseemly, especially today. “Has Apara returned?”
“Not so I know.”
Which meant she was still in Tressia, or yet further afield. That, at least, gave identity to another scrap of loss. In some indefinable way, Tregard wasn’t home with Apara elsewhere. Just as Aeldran’s absence diminished the city in a manner Melanna had never truly noticed. But Aeldran was returning. Apara might for ever remain out of reach, beyond what solace Melanna could offer. A friend deserved better. Friendship demanded better.
“You asked of Lord Droshna,” she said, before her thoughts turned dark. “He was borne from the field, though I do not know his fate. I hold him responsible for recent deaths, as should you. Should he cross my path again, I will do so forcefully.”
Orova scowled, though Melanna had the sense she was not the sole target of disfavour.
She crouched, eye to eye with Kaila, mercifully still and silent throughout the exchange. “Essavim, perhaps you and Lady Orova would do me the kindness of inspecting the banquet preparations? One cannot have a celebration without a feast. The cooks might even have some honeycomb to spare.”
Eyes shining, Kaila smoothed her hair across her shoulders and raised a hand for Orova to take. “Come, Shar Rosa. Honeycomb is the best breakfast.”
Orova’s scowl deepened. But it cleared swiftly enough, the reluctant smile telling a tale as plainly as Kaila’s use of the shar honorific. Offering Melanna a final appraising glance, she took the girl’s hand and withdrew.
“She seldom left Orova’s side this past day,” said Sera. “The woman has seen every inch of the palace twice over, and heard every tale Kaila knows to tell. She’s been worn ragged. I began my watch fearing your daughter might need protecting from your guest. The reverse was truer.”
Melanna’s eyes remained on the retreating pair. “She’s better at making friends than her mother. I hope the knack never leaves her. Friends are important.” She shifted her gaze to Sera. “And should always speak their mind.”
The lunassera straightened, steeling herself. “There is always a price for Jack o’ Fellhallow’s aid. Your father learned this too late. I thought you knew better.”
“Ashana left us to stand alone.” Melanna hung her head, the smile worn for Kaila receding as consequence again clamoured for attention. “And my people celebrate salvation in a city that would otherwise have burned around them.”
“But the bargain—”
“Is mine alone, and the debt alongside. When it comes due, I will pay it unflinching, but for today I will strive for happiness. Will you permit me that, Sera?”
She hesitated, lips pursing beneath the silver half-mask. “Of course, Ashanal.”
Viktor stared east across the rushing waters of the River Ravonn and beheld nothing but failure amid the melting snows.
The army that had followed him to Argatha Bridge? Gone. More to rout than to the Raven, or so his officers assured him, but regathering it would take days, if it was possible at all. What constructs remained were pitiful, battered creatures, badly in need of repair and barely fit to guard the siege lines at Ahrad. Most had been destroyed, their wreckage abandoned by an army in flight. Those few Thrakkians who’d held their order had already ridden for home, claiming their contract was for the Eastshires’ recapture, not to die to demons across the border.
Stantin Izack, most loyal of the souls who’d marched east under his orders? Gone. A colossal weight upon Viktor’s shoulders, the burden multiplied first by the uncivil tone of their last parting, again by the fact that Izack’s caution had been proven proper, and one last time by the faithfulness shown to the very end.
Hopes of an Empress humbled and Tregard taken? Gone. Opportunity had been lost. Moreover, if Fellhallow and the Empire stood as one, there would be no other. Indeed, the days ahead might hold a great deal of strife. Reports from wayfarers and the smattering of borderers still under Viktor’s command suggested that the ancient forest had returned to slumber. But what stock could really be set in such claims?
His reputation as a man who achieved the impossible? Gone. Viktor told himself that renown shouldn’t have mattered when set against other losses. When set against the dead.
But it did, and burned all the darker.
Harms to the self were nothing. Even if his limbs still trembled with the aftermath of his shadow’s exertion and his thoughts buzzed with its restlessness. The crisp scent of the rushing river fell distant, dreamlike. The hubbub from the siege encampment a quarter mile to the north was little better. Only the sunlight felt real, its unsettling caress more mockery than balm.
He’d been a fool to puppeteer the dead. He’d known what it might cost, known even then that it wouldn’t work. Why else had he pursued the possibility of porcelain soldiers so long? Desperation had chosen his actions, and he fortunate not to be among the dead. That he was not was source of both shame and hope. Shame for surviving where others had not, and the hope that he might one day deliver justice already overdue.
What else was there? He stared north, to the palisades and tents of the siege lines. Ahrad would again be theirs within a week, assuming Jack o’ Fellhallow’s mischief was done. That might have counted for something, except Josiri would claim the ruins could have been theirs without a fight. It might even have been true.
Viktor scowled away the thought. Times were dire enough without surrendering to doubt. Josiri brought enough of his own to any conversation.
A twig snapped, the scuff of boot close behind.
“I left orders I was not to be disturbed,” he said without turning. The growl in his voice should have set the intruder to flight.
“I need to speak with you, Uncle.” Sidara’s voice shook, apprehension and resolve battling for dominance. Resolve won. “I must speak with you.”
Little question as to what had brought her there. She’d been as much a stranger to the woebegone encampment as he, but since waking Viktor had pieced together enough accounts of the battle to understand her role. Had he suspected she’d concealed such power, things might have been very different…
He willed dourness away.
It obeyed only in part, but a part was enough to regain mastery of self and temper. Turning carefully, the better to subdue the dizziness of sunlight, he sought a reassuring smile. He found none.
“If it’s wisdom you seek, mine lies at low ebb.”
Sidara picked her way across the stones and joined him at the riverside. She scarcely looked upon him, her eyes downcast to the water. Her entire self was frayed. Not just the uniform – though that was unusual enough – but her manner also. Even the radiant light Viktor perceived through his shadow. Abandoning the search for a smile, he settled for a softened tone.
“What troubles you?”
Her throat bobbed. “I failed everyone, just as I failed my parents.”
“You saved us.”
A half-truth, for salvation had come as much from Izack and those who’d held Argatha Bridge. But Izack lay beyond Viktor’s ability to offer comfort. The events of Midwintertide had proven how far the dead lay beyond his grasp.
Sidara hung her head. “And what of the slain? The wounded who burned on the hillside? The constructs in my charge?” She paused, her voice shaking. She’d always regarded the simarka as pets, more than tools of war. A foolish notion, though Viktor understood the sentiment that drove it. “Did I save them? After you collapsed, the light called for me to set it free. Why couldn’t it have done so sooner?”
“If I’ve learned anything about magic, it’s that it possesses fearsome will. It must be dominated if you’ve any hope of remaining sane.”
“I thought I’d done so. It’s been so quiet these past years.”
“Perhaps because you hadn’t need. You say it called for you. Perhaps you called for it?”
Sidara pinched her lips tight, her eyes fixed on the Ravonn’s seething waters. “Then it is my fault. I could have acted sooner.”
After brief hesitation – the personal more challenging than ever while swathed in his own grim mood – Viktor laid heavy hand on her shoulder. “I didn’t mean it thus. Battle is a catalyst that rouses strength from weakness and valour from a timorous heart. All that I am, it taught me. The lessons are not always kind.” He spoke slowly, choosing his words with uttermost care. “But we can still learn from them, if we possess the strength to do so.”