“Are you sure?”
Devlin Craig let his hand fall to his side, still clutching the report. The old soldier named Kelbs gave a slight shrug. His face was as hard and cratered and cold as a winter in the pass. He had a no-nonsense way about him that suffered no stupidity.
“Those are the best estimates we’ve got, Commander.”
Craig squeezed his hand, crumpling the strip of parchment. “Gods be damned.”
“Don’t blame the gods, Commander,” Kelbs advised in a practiced monotone. “Blame our own damned lack of foresight. We should have seen this coming.”
“You mean I should have seen this coming,” Craig growled.
He trudged over to the table with its collection of maps strewn across it. He leaned over, planting both hands on the table. He examined the array of implements already spread out across the surface and took a deep breath. Then he started moving rocks and broadheads, repositioning them.
“They’re draining all the Black Lands,” he decided finally. “They’re sending everything they’ve got against us.”
To the two officers still lingering by the door, he said, “Send messengers to generals Blandford and Horthall. I want the Northern armies pitched at our rear. And I want men up on those ridges tomorrow, planting powder kegs and laying out charges. If they want to take the pass, we’ll let them. But we’ll make it their graveyard.”
To the old sergeant, he directed, “Prioritize supply. We need provisions. And arrows—as many arrows as you can get. There shouldn’t be one goose with a feather on its wings anywhere between here and Rothscard.”
“Aye, Commander. How long do you think we have?”
Craig took one last glance at the maps, feeling fate kick him in the ass. “Not long enough.”
17
Blood Feud
Darien awoke to soft rustling noises coming from the other side of the room. He cracked his eyes open just enough to gaze across the dim bedchamber. He could make out his wife’s silhouette illuminated by the wan glow of an oil lamp. She was kneeling in the corner, rummaging around in the small chest he kept there. Darien watched her closely, not sure how he felt about the situation. He kept some very private tokens in that chest. She had no business going near it.
He sat up.
His movement caught her attention. Seeing him awake, Azár turned and smiled, making her way toward the bed. She knelt next to him. Her hair spilled freely down her back, unconstrained. Her eyes were wide and dark like a sea after sunset.
“It is time to wake, my husband,” she said. “I was just finishing packing. I hope you don’t mind, but I put a few of my own things in your chest.”
“I don’t mind,” he responded, settling back into the deep pillows of the bed. That explained her invasion of his privacy, he supposed, although he still didn’t like it. He rubbed his eyes, wishing she’d go away. He was naked beneath the blankets and feeling the usual morning urgency. The proximity of her soft skin wasn’t helping the situation.
“I need my clothes,” he grumbled.
She handed him his trousers. He struggled into them beneath the covers then walked stiffly into the adjoining bath. Bracing himself with a hand against the wall, he had to lean forward to angle his stream into the keyhole-shaped opening in the floor. When he returned to the bedchamber, Azár was still there, now sitting in the chair by the writing desk. He didn’t understand why she remained; in the days since their wedding, she’d made a steady practice of avoiding him.
He found a fresh shirt and pulled it on, covering it with his new black cloak: a present from his wife. He bent over, pulling his boots on by the straps. She watched him the whole while, eyes tracking his every motion.
“Are you packed?” he asked her, more to break the tension than anything else.
“I am.”
She had brought few belongings with her to the palace. Most of her physical wealth she carried on her person in the form of jewelry he’d given her as part of her bride-gift. But all the jewels in the world were worthless in comparison to the true wealth that Azár was rich in: the character and quality of her magelight. That was a princely treasure, worth more than any riches.
There was a knock at the door and Sayeed entered alone, bowing gracefully. He looked a little puzzled at finding Azár and Darien in the same room together. He’d been conspicuously restrained ever since the second bed had been hauled in and Darien’s ghastly hound evicted to the stable.
Sayeed said, “Word has come from Bryn Calazar that the Kajiri portal is now available to us. We have only four days to empty the Khazahar of all its people.”
Four days. That wasn’t much time.
Thankfully, the tribes were gathered in the valley below; they’d been trickling in little by little since before the wedding feast. Still, the journey down into the ice caverns was difficult. It would also take time to move that many people through two transfer portals. First, a journey to Bryn Calazar, the hub that connected all the portals in the Black Lands. Then another transfer to Kajiri Flats, where Malikar’s armies were staging. They would have to be precise about the logistics, or the evacuation could quickly degrade into disaster.
“Get the first twenty battalions through the portal,” Darien said, buckling his warbelt. “Then the baggage. Then the civilians. Have the rest of the battalions bring up the rear.”
Sayeed bowed his way out the door as a young girl entered with a breakfast tray. Darien helped himself to a piece of flatbread, absently offering a bowl of fruit to Azár. He tore off a bite, then set himself to the task of packing up the ink pots and parchment on the writing desk.
“You are quiet this morning,” Azár said. “Why?”
Darien shrugged. “I’m bringing war against my own homeland. I still have friends there.” He stooped to tuck the papers in his hand into the chest, checking the stoppers on the inkwells.
Azár finished chewing, her eyes studying him intensely. She asked, “And how does that make you feel?”
He turned to look at her. “It makes me feel sick.” His voice carried more venom than he’d intended. He strove to modify his tone. “I don’t understand why any of this is necessary. I’m still hoping that more reasonable minds will prevail.”
She raised her eyebrows, plucking another plump grape off its stem. “More reasonable minds than Meiran?”
“That’s what I meant.” He put the ink pots into the chest and closed the lid.
She asked, “Do you still think it’s possible to negotiate with them?”
“I don’t know. I aim to try.” He slid into the chair opposite her, one arm resting on the desk. Looking at her suspiciously, he probed, “And what about you? You’re about to leave everything you’ve ever known behind. How does that make you feel?”
She shrugged dismissively, her face bland. “There is nothing that holds me here. I have seen the face of the sun. I’ve felt the warmth of it on my skin. I want to feel the sun again.”
Darien understood. It was no more than she deserved. He said, “I’ll give you the sun, Azár, if it’s within my power.”
Her kohl-lined eyes stared at him suspiciously. But then a dazzling smile dawned on her face, glowing brighter than any sun that he remembered.
“Then I know I will see it,” she said. “Because there is nothing that is outside of your power.”
He grimaced, finding the statement ironic.
“What?” she asked.
“That’s just a lot of faith. I hope I can live up to it.” He scooted his chair back, standing up. “Are you ready? We’ve a long road ahead of us.”
She set the fruit down on her plate. Then she rose, drawing her scarf up over her head. It was bright turquoise, a color that complemented her skin tone perfectly.
Darien took one last look around the chamber, wondering if he’d miss it. He thought he would. It was the most luxurious quarters he’d ever had. He doubted he’d ever find better. He wasn’t sure how much longer he even had left in this world. Not very much, he w
as afraid. It felt like time was speeding up, winding tighter like a spring about to snap.
He offered his arm to Azár, his innocent wife who was just as doomed as he was. He tried not to think about it, shoving the thought aside. He would save that worry for another time. It didn’t matter, really. The Reversal was coming, and there wasn’t a damned thing anyone could do about it. Especially not him.
Together, they walked away from the Residence enveloped by a cluster of Zakai. Two horses were led toward them, their hoofs clop-clopping on the tiles. Alongside his red stallion trotted the demon-hound, its nose to the floor, eyes like glowing green coals. At the sight of its master, the beast cocked its ears forward, its throat emitting a low purr. Or perhaps it was a growl; he really couldn’t tell. The beast had been relegated to the stable ever since the wedding, much to the horses’ dismay.
Darien helped Azár onto the mare that was part of her bride-gift, then waited as an officer held his own stirrup for him to mount. The Zakai led the horses forward by their tasseled bridles, the sounds of their hoofbeats echoing off the walls.
As the doors to the Residence closed behind them for the last time, Darien couldn’t help but wonder if the sounds of their passage would be the last to ever ring in Tokashi’s magnificent halls. They were leaving the Black Lands, possibly forever. Unless he could find a way to clear the curse over the skies, there would never be a reason to return.
The horses didn’t like the transfer portals.
Darien’s stallion reared and nearly bolted, while Azár’s mount put its head down and bucked like an unbroken colt. After the first transfer to Bryn Calazar, both horses balked, refusing to enter the second portal. Only after their heads had been wrapped in cloth did they relent and allow themselves to be led under the cross-vaulted arch.
There was an intense flash. And then Darien found himself stepping out onto the black dirt of a floodplain he’d only ever looked down upon from the pass above. Directly ahead loomed a familiar peak: the Spire of Orguleth. He’d only ever seen it from the other side. The peak on the left must be Maidenclaw, though it looked nothing maiden-like from this direction.
He unwrapped his horse’s head and looked around with a growing mixture of wonder and dismay. He’d never seen so many tents. They stretched out toward the vast horizons in every direction, arranged in perfect rows. Each tent had a lantern that hung before it on a pole. Thousands of tents. Thousands of lanterns. Thousands upon thousands of men and women.
The dark plain that swallowed them resembled a night sky full of stars. Above, the clouds roiled as the clouds ever did, racing and crackling with uneasy energies deep within their depths. His horse snorted, bobbing its head and stamping a hoof.
A group of Tanisars moved forward, speaking in hushed voices to Sayeed. The Zakai officer turned to Darien, translating, “Our camp is to the south, Lord. Your tent has been made ready. However, your presence is requested in the command pavilion.”
Darien nodded. “Please have my wife escorted to our tent.”
“It will be as you say.” The man bowed.
Azár glanced at Darien but said nothing; it was impossible to read her eyes. She gazed at him with absolute trust and didn’t bother saying goodbye. Darien watched Sayeed’s men swarm protectively around her, leading her mount away. He was grateful for the Zakai; a woman of Azár’s beauty had no business in a military encampment.
That was his first thought. Then he remembered the women who served in Bryn Calazar’s legions and was reminded of his wife’s ferocious nature. Perhaps a military encampment was exactly where Azár was intended to be.
Sayeed led his horse forward as soldiers emerged from the tents to watch their small procession through the camp. It didn’t take Darien long to realize that it was not a warm reception. Many of the men and women that lined their path looked at him with hatred in their eyes, some spitting on the ground as he passed. No one spoke a word; the camp was eerily quiet. But the anger of the soldiers didn’t need a voice.
Sayeed looked at him and explained, “These are the legions of Maridur. Their numbers were decimated in the last invasion. They will have no love for you.”
Darien nodded without saying a word. All along their route, men and women spat and turned their backs to him. He could almost smell the stench of their hatred. It sapped the energy from him, making him feel drained and weary. He understood their anger and contempt; he had killed thousands of their comrades. Their anger was justified.
At last they reached the command tent, a purple pavilion supported by many poles. It was the size of a small house, with flaps tied back to serve as the opening to a dim interior. Their party drew up in front of it. Darien left his stallion with Sayeed and started walking forward.
“Darien Nach’tier!”
He turned just in time to see a spear hurling toward him. It gored him right through, pinning him fast to a tent post.
He gaped in shock at the trembling shaft sticking out of him. The world was darkening quickly, like heated paper charring at the edges. His mind groped frantically for the magic field as his vision faded. He drew in the field as hard as he could, throwing it mindlessly at the pain. Then he started screaming as his flesh began to burn.
The last thing Darien saw was Sayeed standing in front of him, scimitar held high in a warding stance. Then he relaxed into darkness.
He was surprised that he woke at all.
Darien opened his eyes to find a familiar face staring down at him.
“Well, here we are again,” said an equally familiar voice.
“And where is that?” he whispered hoarsely.
He was groggy, to the point that he couldn’t make heads or tails of his surroundings. The woman leaning over him had dark brown skin and sleek ebony hair. She was elegant in an unusual way, beautiful without meaning to be.
He blinked a couple times, fumbling through hazy bleariness to remember her name. The woman placed a hand on his chest, closing her eyes. He could feel a faint stirring of power deep inside. She was another mage, and she was probing him, he realized.
“You are in my tent,” she explained, smiling at him with her eyes. “I had your men bring you here so I could watch you while you recovered.” Her smile slipped a bit. “You seem to have a hard time keeping yourself alive.”
Her name finally came to him: Myria Anassis. He was surprised to see her there. He’d thought she was in Bryn Calazar with Renquist. With effort, he squirmed into a sitting position. “What happened?”
“As you can imagine, not all of Malikar’s soldiers think highly of you. One man in particular decided that vengeance was more important than his own life. He lost his entire family at Orien’s Finger. All five of his brothers. Do you understand the concept of blood feud?”
He did. Darien realized that he’d been a fool; he should have expected such an attack. “Thank you for saving me,” he murmured.
Myria scoffed, trailing a hand down her waist-length hair. “You saved yourself. You burned the spear to ash and cauterized the wound. You were lucky; we couldn’t have gotten to you in time.”
He reached up, rubbing the place where the shaft had penetrated. There wasn’t even a scar left. Myria had done a masterful job with the healing. He gazed at her in speculation, remembering the time she had healed him in Bryn Calazar, right after his arrival in the Black Lands. Then, she had propositioned him for sex. He’d rejected her at the time. The look in her eyes made him regret that decision.
She stood up. “Do you feel up to walking? Warden Connel would like a word with you. Well, more than a word. Frankly, I think he’s quite pissed.”
He still felt groggy, but figured he was up for a walk if he had to be. Darien pushed himself up off the pallet, rising stiffly. He looked down at his body, realizing he wasn’t wearing much.
“Here’s your trousers,” Myria said, and tossed them to him. Her eyes lingered on his chest.
He caught the trousers and drew them on, lacing them up the front. Then he donned th
e tunic she handed him.
“And here’s this.” Myria offered him a chain hauberk. “Orders. You’re not to go anywhere without at least a mail shirt. And I’m told you’re to be fitted for a set of field plate.”
Darien stared at the ring mail before accepting it with a shrug. He pulled it on over his head, tugging it down his chest. It was well-made, and not as heavy as it looked. He girded his belt over it then pulled on his boots, snatching his swords up off the ground.
“I hear you wed.”
Darien glanced over his shoulder as he shoved the scimitar through his belt. “I did.”
“Congratulations.” Myria smiled in a friendly way, handing him his longsword. “I also hear the marriage remains unconsummated.”
Darien paused in the action of shouldering his baldric. For a second he stood frozen. Then he straightened, turning away from her. “I suppose I’ll have to speak to my men.”
“Rumor flies swifter than the arrow,” she assured him. “Don’t blame your men, Darien. Blame your wife.”
He turned to look back at her, searching her face.
“Don’t worry,” she commiserated, trailing a hand down the tent post that stood between them. “I understand a marriage of necessity. I had one of those myself once.” She leaned forward, long hair swaying over her shoulders. “The offer I made is still open. If you ever get bored, well … you know where to find me.”
Her words took him off-guard. Hadn’t she just been congratulating him on his marriage? He stared at Myria, wondering what kind of city ancient Bryn Calazar must have been like. Obviously very different from Aerysius. She saw the look on his face and grinned, obviously happy to have unsettled him.
“Come on.” She turned, beckoning for him to follow. “I’ll show you to the command tent.”
As soon as they stepped outside, Darien found himself confronted by two rows of Zakai who fell immediately to their knees. Sayeed walked toward him, head bowed, and fell to the black dirt at his feet. There was a small commotion as soldiers from the surrounding tents moved in closer to watch. Soon, Darien found himself surrounded by armed and spiteful men ringing him dangerously.
The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy Page 97