“There!” Val-Draekin’s voice was still naught but a muffled sound against the booming of the falls. “The wall! Help me to it!”
Nail craned his frozen neck. Just behind him rose the crooked wall of the cavern. Enormous crags in the ice ran in jagged lines from water to ceiling, crevasses jammed with blocks of ice and other debris. The nearest crag had two towering blocks of ice crammed into it, the blocks leaning away from each other, creating a steep V at their conjoined base. The bottom of the V was just a few feet above the surface of the pool, wide enough for two men to stand in, if they could reach it.
Val-Draekin sputtered and dipped below the water. Nail grabbed the front of the Vallè’s leather tunic and lifted him up. With feeble limbs, Nail swam backward toward the wall, pulling the Vallè along. Once they reached the V at the base of the two blocks of ice, Val-Draekin wriggled his way up and out of the water and wedged himself into it, Nail pushing him up from behind. The Vallè was barefooted too, having discarded his own boots in the water at some point. And from the twisted angle of one of Val-Draekin’s exposed feet, Nail could tell the Vallè’s leg was likely broken just above the ankle.
In the crag a few feet beyond Val-Draekin was a tangled pile of driftwood, all of it lodged and frozen into the ice. The Vallè scooted over and wrestled one of the gnarled logs free and held it out for Nail, who latched onto it and held on for dear life. Once he was pulled to safety, they both sat there, huddled together in silence, freezing.
A stream of light from a crack in the glacier hundreds of feet above rained down right on their precarious perch. But it offered no warmth. Nail could scarcely move his fingers, they were so numb from the brittle, wet cold. In fact, his fingers were icing over. His bare feet were solid lumps of frozen agony. And his face, every tiny part of his flesh where a silver dart had pricked his skin burned with singular individual fire and rage.
“Where’s Roguemoore?” he shouted. But he didn’t know if Val-Draekin could even hear him over the roaring of the waterfall. The dark-haired fellow just stared into the bleak nothingness of the cavern, shivering violently, pale features a mask of agony. Nail shivered too, every muscle in his body aching from the intensity of it all, jaw clenched. If he was injured like the Vallè, he couldn’t tell for the stinging, paralyzing cold that ate at every part of him. He couldn’t see any blood.
Val-Draekin began tugging at some of the driftwood frozen into the crevasse next to him. He turned to Nail, shouting, “Any driftwood that floats by, grab it!”
Nail didn’t know if he could even move. A thin layer of ice cracked away from his wrists and fingers as he rolled to the side. With aching and weary muscles, he leaned over the pool, searching for any wood in the water. It was so cold his mind could scarcely form a thought. Where is Roguemoore?
He fished a few small chunks of driftwood from the water and ponderously handed them back to the Vallè, who stacked them up with the wood he’d gathered from the wall. After a few minutes, the pile of wet, frozen wood between them had grown and Nail sat back up. The Vallè put the palms of his hands up to his own lips and blew on them for warmth. After a moment he reached into his soaked leather armor and pulled forth a flattened leather satchel tied with a string at the top. He opened the satchel and removed another, smaller black bag made of rough wool. Despite the drenched look of the Vallè and all his leather clothes, in the light from above the wool sack looked bone dry.
Val-Draekin dipped his hand down into the bag. When he removed his hand, his fingers were coated in what looked like white chalk. He put his hand to his lips and blew some of the powder over the wet wood. He then waved his hand over the pile and snapped his fingers. To Nail’s astonishment, a ball of flame appeared in the palm of the Vallè’s hand. Val-Draekin held the fire under the pile of driftwood for a second until the wood began to smolder and catch. Soon bits of the wood were aflame and the Vallè slapped the fire in his hand out against the leg of his sopping leather pants.
Nail didn’t care how Val-Draekin had just performed what seemed like a miracle.
He simply huddled over the flames, warming his hands, gazing at his strange companion. The Vallè’s face was more ashen than normal, even under the yellow flush of the firelight. A continuous shiver coursed through Nail, a shiver of both cold and fear. He couldn’t escape the realization that Roguemoore was gone and he and Val-Draekin were hopelessly lost under tons of glacial ice.
* * *
O children of Amadon, recall the favor which Laijon hast bestowed upon you, and guard yourself against the wraiths. For they who believe in sorcery, Laijon hath cursed.
—THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON
* * *
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
AVA SHAY
10TH DAY OF THE ANGEL MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
SOUTH OF LOKKENFELL, GUL KANA
Ava Shay set her stance and held her sword out, the heart-shaped ruby in the hilt pressed against her inner wrist. My Heart, she had named the weapon. She hadn’t shared the name of the sword with Enna Spades. Nor would she.
“Up,” the warrior woman ordered, lowering her own bloodstained blade, stepping forward. “Keep the tip of your sword up.” Spades was dressed in full Knight Archaic battle gear: silver cuirass and tunic of chain mail and leather greaves studded with silver, all of it splattered with blood. Her dark blue cloak was thrown over her left shoulder. A wooden crossbow and quiver half-full of quarrels were strapped to the baldric crossing her back. Her battle helm was hooked to the pommel of her stallion’s saddle—the white horse, named Slaughter, stood to their left, blood smeared over its haunches.
Spades had just recently been in battle. As had Aeros Raijael, now within his tent not fifty paces away, changing from his own armor. The bulk of the White Prince’s army was still swarming the outskirts of Lokkenfell, mopping up after the skirmish. They had just fought some five hundred knights from Lord’s Point. Spades seemed healed from her previous injury two days ago. Her arm showed no ill effects anyway. Her sling was gone. Unless the injury had all been a pretense. With Aeros’ group of Knights Archaic, all things seemed like they were meant to deceive, even injuries.
From her vantage point atop a grassy slope of brush and hedgerows, Ava could just make out the distant buildings of Lokkenfell. A few stone structures along the outskirts of the town were smoldering, black smoke billowing, destroyed during the clash of armies. Spiderwood had been tasked with guarding her during the battle. Now he was down in Lokkenfell hunting stragglers with Hammerfiss, Mancellor, and Jenko.
Whilst Aeros was changing and washing, Spades had insisted on giving Ava a short lesson with the sword. And as Ava had sparred with Spades, she couldn’t believe she was actually enjoying the practice, enjoying the time spent with this woman she hated. She was conflicted. Even though, according to The Way and Truth of Laijon, it was wrong in the eyes of Laijon for a woman to wield a weapon, she was actually glad to be learning how to carry a sword like a man. In fact, what conflicted her most was that with each passing day she was beginning to wonder how much truth there really was in the holy book she’d revered her whole life. As her time as a captive wore on, she noticed she was conversing with Laijon less and less. And the less she prayed, the more the wraiths stayed out of her mind.
Spades slashed with her sword and Ava blocked the blow. “Good,” the woman complimented her. “But after a successful parry, be ready. . . .”
Spades trailed off, her attention focused on a group of Knights of the Blue Sword. They were trudging up the grassy slope toward them from the direction of Lokkenfell, all afoot. Ava counted ten, each helmeted, armor and helms crusted in blood from long fighting, each girt with a sword on his belt and a shield in hand. But there was something odd about the approaching knights that Ava could not place.
“What’s this?” Spades stiffened, brow furrowed. “Be wary, Ava.”
Then Ava figured it out. Normally Knights of the Blue Sword followed a rigid pattern of march at all times, highest-ranking kni
ght in the lead, the others following behind in two columns. But these ten battle-weary knights wandered up the hill, clumped together and leaderless.
“I order you to stay back!” Spades imposed herself between Ava and the approaching fighters, her sword ready. But the knights spread out, several drawing their weapons. “Stop!” Spades shouted.
The nearest knight charged. The others followed, some angling to get behind Spades, shouting as they ran. A stab of hope pricked Ava’s heart. Are they here to rescue me? She backed away, confused, frightened, hopeful, the tip of her own sword trailing in the dirt before her, not knowing whose side she was on now.
Spades wasted no time, launching herself straight at her nearest foe, longsword whirling, striking the helmeted head from the first knight as she ducked under the looping swing of another. When she rose, her follow-through sliced the arm off the knight who had next taken aim at her. Both the severed arm and head of the first knight struck the ground at the same time, blood spouting as the two men fell to the ground, one screaming. The tip of Spades’ sword swiftly silenced his cries.
The warrior woman was so fast Ava couldn’t even keep track of how she killed the next three knights who came at her. But they soon all lay on the ground, swords and shields a-scatter, blood gushing from gaping wounds. Five of the knights were dead in less than two seconds and the other five backed off, wary, shields up.
“She is not who we came to kill!” one of the knights yelled, motioning with his sword toward Aeros’ tent. “The White Prince is in there!”
Two of the remaining knights rushed Spades. The tip of the warrior woman’s sword met the first knight straight through the eye slit of his helm, blood gushing from underneath and over his chest plate. She ripped her sword free and he dropped dead at the second knight’s feet, tripping him. Spades was quick to strike his head from his body as he fell. Two more of her foes again lay dead on the ground in the blink of an eye, thick gouts of red pumping over the dirt.
Aeros Raijael stepped out of his tent, his own sword ready. He wore no armor, just a white robe tied at the waist. The three knights remaining sprinted toward him.
Ava was in their charging path. She held up her blade.
In one fluid motion Spades pulled the crossbow from her back, nocked a quarrel, and fired. The bolt struck the middle knight in the back of the thigh, sending him stumbling to the ground right at Ava’s feet. He lost hold of his sword. His helmet sprang from his head, tumbling away in the dirt.
The other two knights ran straight by Ava, attacking the White Prince with a fury. But Aeros’ glittering sword was as fast as Spades’. He beheaded both with a swift ease and grace that seemed almost impossible to Ava.
The knight under Ava struggled to stand. He managed to kneel on one leg, his longsword still in hand, its honed edge looking bright and sharp.
Scared, Ava put the tip of her sword to the knight’s throat. He looked up at her, hair falling in front of his wide, pain-filled eyes. At first Ava had hoped these men were here to rescue her—then found herself relishing the ease with which Spades and Aeros had finished them. She was tempted to push the tip of her own thin blade into the kneeling man’s throat. Have I turned to the dark like Jenko, calloused and cruel? Have I betrayed Laijon so soon?
The White Prince stood behind her. “You are no knight of mine,” he addressed the man at the end of Ava’s sword. The knight spat a wad of blood on the ground at Aeros’ bare feet, then stared at the White Prince with cold defiance.
“What is your name?” Aeros asked. “Why do you wear the colors of my army? Why do you pose as a Knight of the Blue Sword?”
The man remained silent.
“Answer.” Spades stepped up casually next to Aeros. “Or Ava here will stick the point of her little poker through your throat.”
Ava pressed the tip of her blade against the man’s Adam’s apple. What would feel like to slide it into his throat? She wondered if she really had it in her to kill a man. Wondered what evil had overcome her.
“Answer, scum,” Spades repeated, voice near a shout.
Ava pushed the blade into the knight’s flesh just some, drawing a trickle of blood. The man’s eyes widened with fright. “I am Ser Revalard Avocet of Lord’s Point. Captain of Lord Kelvin Kronnin’s Ocean Guard.”
“You, Ser Revalard, have much to answer for,” said Aeros, a harsh eloquence now in his tone. “And you will answer. And then your death will be a long and drawn out affair. And it will be most painful.”
Ser Revalard met Aeros’ gaze. “I’ve said all I will say.”
“No, you haven’t.” Spades sheathed her own sword. “You will talk. In fact, you’ll squawk everything you know like a Tomkin Sty tom turkey, you just don’t know it yet.” Spades knelt in front of the man. “In fact, you have no idea how much you will say.”
The man’s face remained defiant.
Hammerfiss, Mancellor, and Jenko approached from the south, all in bloodstained armor, all mounted. Spiderwood was with them, black armor spotless. His Bloodeye steed, Scowl, was breathing heavily. Aeros and Spades watched their approach.
“There’s a lot of blood about.” Hammerfiss’ eyes were alight as the four reined up, his grin wide and full of amusement. “Did the slip of a girl slaughter them all? Did little Ava do all this?”
Jenko’s eyes narrowed when he saw the sword in Ava’s hand, the tip still pressed to Ser Revalard’s throat. Ava backed away from the kneeling knight, sliding the sword slowly into the sheath at her belt.
“I recognize that man,” Mancellor said. “He was part of Jondralyn’s contingent of knights when Jenko, the Spider, and I met with her in Ravenker.” Jenko nodded his affirmation.
“So, Ser Revalard is a man of some import.” Spades smiled down at the knight. “So how ’bout we make a deal, man of import? Let’s say I give you back your sword and helm. Let you stand. All you need do is attack that man atop the red-eyed horse.” She nodded toward the Spider. “He is a Bloodwood assassin. A creature most foul. Stab him but once, and we let you go free. No questions asked.”
“Don’t include me in your deals,” Spiderwood said, emotionless dark eyes surveying the dead men scattered about.
“The deal has already been offered.” Spades smiled. “If I give back his sword and he attacks you . . . whatever will you do?”
“Kill you both.” The Bloodwood leaned forward in his saddle, black leather armor softly creaking as he gripped the saddle horn.
“It matters not,” Ser Revalard hissed. “I piss on your deal. You won’t honor it anyway.”
Spades turned her attention back to Revalard. “Oh, I will honor the deal.” She picked up his sword and held it out. “Take it.”
“I said I piss on you and your deal, savage bitch.”
Spades chucked Revalard’s sword back to the ground. “I hate when people won’t even try.” She snatched up the man’s right hand, stripped the gauntlet away. She grabbed his middle finger and bent it straight back. It broke with a harsh snap. The man screamed. Spades kept twisting, forcing his finger back until the palm of his hand split open, bone and tendon exposed, shockingly white against the flow of blood.
Spades kept wrenching, peeling Ser Revalard’s middle finger down the back side of his wrist until naught but a red flap of skin was holding it to his hand. With a quick jerk she tore the finger all the way free and tossed it to the dirt.
Then she grabbed another of Ser Revalard’s fingers and began peeling.
† † † † †
Ser Revalard died a long and painful death—died at the murderous hands of both Hammerfiss and Spades. Jenko Bruk helped in the murder.
And again Ava had been forced to watch, caressing the sharpened edges of My Heart as the man screamed his final agonizing screams.
Before he died, Revalard had confessed. He and the other nine Ocean Guards had been under the direct orders of Lord Kelvin Kronnin to infiltrate the armies of Sør Sevier and assassinate the White Prince. He pr
oudly recounted how they had trapped and killed a group of Aeros’ Knights of the Blue Sword and stolen their armor. But Ser Revalard had not realized the futility of his quest. For Ava knew how deadly the Knights Archaic of Sør Sevier were, she knew that they lived to war and hunt and scheme and torture. Had Ser Revalard known what she knew, he would not have set out on such a fool mission.
Now he was fingerless, toeless, earless, noseless, cockless, and dead.
But Ava had to admit, the buffet of food Aeros served after the man’s torture was divine. The Knights Archaic always feasted like royals after a fight, especially when the enemy fought back, or played some form of trickery, or suffered the torture as hardily as Ser Revalard Avocet had. The surge of bloodlust and violence built up a hearty appetite in Spades and Hammerfiss, and they reveled in the party afterward. Ava enjoyed the food and wine herself. It was as if she had lost all feeling. As if she lived merely for the next numbing drink.
The Knights Archaic were gathered around a fire pit outside Aeros’ tent. All were sitting on thick pine stumps, all gabbing openly and candidly with Jenko and Ava as if they were all old friends. Aeros had retreated into his tent earlier, as he was wont to do, never one to enjoy the bawdy talk of his underlings. Not twenty paces away, the Bloodwood stood guard near Aeros’ tent, red-streaked eyes glistening in the firelight, listening to the drunken conversation of those around the fire, brushing his Bloodeye steed.
Ava stroked the edges of the thin blade on her lap. My Heart. As she studied the ruby-hilted sword, the smoke of the fire, the strangeness of the conversation, the rich food and wine settling in her stomach, all seemed to scramble her thoughts. She had only been half listening to what was being said by those gathered around the fire, but at the mention of Jenko’s father, Baron Bruk, Ava’s interest was piqued.
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