“Oh, gods…” Naia whispered. “Amani was your daughter?”
Tsula nodded. “It took me many years before I was able to admit the truth: that it was my own husband who had conspired to have Amani slain. Quinlan Reis and his brother were both merely pawns in Zavier’s many intrigues.”
Naia stared at her in horrified incomprehension. “Why would Renquist murder his own daughter?”
Tsula drew in a deep breath, face twisted into a grimace. “Because Zavier needed Braden’s strength to complete his Circle of Eight. And, unfortunately for Braden, he was a man of integrity. He would never sink to the moral depths necessary to channel the Onslaught. So Zavier decided to put him in an impossible position to force the issue.
“He sent Quinlan to Aerysius under the pretense he was to assassinate Cyrus Krane. Predictably, Quinlan was captured. My husband made sure Amani knew her lover was slated to be executed unless an appropriate ransom was paid. Krane demanded documents that were in Braden’s possession, and Braden was duty-bound to deny him. Amani stole the documents and delivered them to Cyrus Krane herself.”
Naia shook her head, feeling sickened.
Tsula continued, “When Amani returned to the Lyceum, Zavier declared our daughter a traitor and sentenced her to death. And, for Amani’s executioner, he picked Braden, who was bound by duty to murder his own wife.”
The Harbinger drew in a deep, shuddering breath, bowing her head in grief. “All of this horror to corrupt the morals of one honorable mage who would never stand again at Zavier’s side.” She looked up then, her eyes filled with wrath. “My husband was the most despicable man the world has ever known. And now, fueled by Xerys’ vast power, he is the most dangerous demon. So, no. I do not support him.”
The weight of her words seemed to drag the whole world down. Naia stared at the floor in silence, respecting the doleful quiet that comes when a mother mourns her child. As a priestess, she had seen it before, many times.
Eventually, Tsula looked up and offered the smallest, strongest smile.
“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” Naia said after a moment. “If you are Amani’s mother, how could it be that Quin didn’t recognize you?”
Tsula scoffed, turning away. “I never met him. I’m a Harbinger. I exist only in secrets and in shadow. Even my own daughter never knew my face…. But I knew hers. I lived my entire life through her. Now, enough of this.” Tsula waved her hand. “It is time to read the next possible version of your Story. Close your eyes. Now. Try again.”
Naia didn’t want to. But, prompted by the unyielding iron in Tsula’s gaze, she collected her strength, closed her eyes, and tried again.
The epitome of all storms—the storm that every other storm aspired to be—raged and ripped across the atmosphere. Thunder lashed against the cliffs, and lightning the color of blood sliced wounds in the air. The wind howled a monstrous wail as it rampaged through the mountains, terrorizing the clouds, which fled wildly before it. The world screamed in mortal anguish, and Naia screamed with it.
Quin was below, in the chamber of the Well of Tears. Trying to wrench the portal full open before the Reversal could maximize.
In front of her, Kyel Archer advanced across the Circle of Convergence, wielding a silver morning star in his hand.
In the center of the Circle—in full command of it—Zavier Renquist swept out a fist. A blinding glare of light whiter than bright and brilliantly powerful assaulted Kyel from the sky. He brought the talisman up to deflect it, but the strike was indomitable—it impacted with all the fury of the vortex. It overwhelmed the talisman’s power, hurling Kyel backward to the ground, ripping the weapon out of his hands. Another magical assault drilled down from the clouds, stabbing into him.
The blow threw Kyel across the terrace. Another strike lifted him again, slamming him against the cliff. Zavier Renquist raised his arms, summoning the energies of the vortex for one last, mortal strike.
The green pillar above them exploded in fury. A great inferno shot upward, igniting the clouds, roiling the atmosphere. Fire streamed across the sky, cauterizing the air as it scourged the magic field. The field wailed in outrage as it died. And then it went silent, its rhythmic pulse stopped forever.
Naia screamed her life away, feeling the gift inside seared out of her.
16
Farbrook
“What town is this?”
“Farbrook,” Darien responded without looking at Sayeed.
He pulled his helmet down over his head and tightened the strap under his chin. Beside him, Azár did the same, her long braid snaking down her back. Darien turned at the sound of hoofbeats approaching behind them on the road, barely visible in the light cast by the faintest sliver of moon. He turned his mount around as the scouts rode up, horses blowing hot mist into the cold air.
The lead scout, a man named Seljik, made a quick bow from his horse’s back. “All appears empty, Warden.”
Darien digested that information in silence. It was the fifth town since Gannet and the second they’d found deserted. It was to be expected, he supposed, with the tactics they’d been employing. He still didn’t like the feel of it, all the same.
“They are starting to anticipate which towns we will hit, and when,” Sayeed commented. “That can go in our favor. Or it can go very badly.”
“Agreed,” Darien said. He sent Seljik off with a gesture. Looking up the road toward Farbrook’s jagged silhouette, he contemplated the tidings. Word had spread far ahead of them. Each town they raided was more prepared than the last.
Reaching out from within, he opened his mind to the magic field and sampled the flow of the field lines. They ran smoothly, like velvet on satin. Following the line of the mountains southward toward Aerysius. It felt good to be out from under the oppression of Orien’s vortex. It felt chilling to be so close to the fallen city he’d once called home.
Darien summoned a mist of magelight that trailed out ahead of them, lighting the road with an eerie blue haze. He whistled, then waited. There was a faint rustling in the trees behind them. Then the thanacryst broke out of the shadows and bounded to his horse’s side.
He said to Sayeed, “We’ll split up. Take your men and go around to the south gate. I’ll come in from the north. We’ll meet in the middle.”
Sayeed nodded and kicked his horse to a canter, followed by four dozen mounted men. Darien held his horse to a walk, following a trail of glowing mist, the remainder of his men following behind. Around them, the night was cold and still as death.
To Azár, Darien said, “Remember what I taught you about fire?”
“I do.” She turned toward him, her eyes shadowed by her helm.
Darien lowered his visor. “If something attacks you, burn the hell out of it.” He couldn’t see the smile on her lips, but he knew it was there.
The demon-hound ranged ahead of them, nose to the ground, ears pricked. As they reached Farbrook’s open gate, the beast sprang forward, working the sides of the road like a hunting dog sniffing for a trail. It zigzagged back and forth across the empty street, scenting the sides of the brick-and-lumber buildings. The thanacryst was like a fluid shadow weaving among other shadows, its eyes boring green holes through the darkness.
The sound of their horses’ hooves echoed sharply off the walls of the houses, ringing through the streets. The magelight lit the path ahead of them, creeping forward like a trail of blue flames. Darien’s horse snorted, shaking its head. He reached down and stroked the animal’s neck, seeking to calm it. The stallion flinched at the feel of his hand.
A low growl from the thanacryst made him jerk back on the reins. His horse whinnied in protest, backing up a few steps before coming to a foot-stomping halt. Darien slid from its back, the Zakai following him to the ground. Azár moved behind him, hand resting on the hilt of her sword. The demon-hound turned back the way they had come. Hackles raised, it bared its teeth and snarled.
Darien slid his sword from its sheath.
A
barrage of arrows rained down from the sky, stabbing the ground all around them. His eyes shot up to the roof of the building across the street, to the group of several archers already loosing their next volley. One of Darien’s men fell with a cry. More arrows clattered down.
Darien didn’t bother with the magic field. He went right to the Hellpower. The men on the rooftop dissolved into a cloud of ash that simply blew away.
He sheathed his sword and dropped to the side of the man who had fallen. An arrow had pierced his thigh. Blood spurted from the wound in time to his heart beat. With a growl, Darien set his hands on him. It took only seconds to mend the severed artery.
“Keep an eye on the rooftops,” Darien ordered his men. He led his horse forward by the reins, his wife and the demon-hound stalking at his sides. He let the magelight crawl ahead of them, licking at the shadows.
All at once, a terrified-looking man burst out of an alley. Before Darien could react, the man let out a staccato scream as he erupted in flames. Shocked, Darien turned to find Azár standing beside him, hand outstretched. He could see the pride that glimmered in her eyes beneath the shadow of her helm. She had been practicing the ruhk attack for days.
Apparently, she’d mastered it.
Darien nodded his approval then waved his men forward, brightening the intensity of the magelight.
“Search every house,” he ordered, then waited in the street as the soldiers began breaking down doors and shattering windows. He stood listening to the sounds of the town’s defilement, one hand absently petting the demon-hound’s head. The thing tilted its head back and licked his knuckles with a putrescent tongue. He waited for minutes. Then, taking Azár’s hand, he walked calmly down the middle of the street.
They met up with Sayeed’s band of raiders in the center of town. There was a large, cobbled square housing a font fed by the town’s covered well. Darien led his men to where Sayeed sat his horse, scimitar in hand.
“There’s nothing,” the officer reported, swiping an arm across his brow. “They took everything with them. No food. They burned the granaries and drove away the livestock.”
Darien cursed, turning his back on Sayeed. Farbrook was the second town they’d encountered that had either destroyed or carried off all their provisions. The situation with his own resources was becoming dire. He stared down at the ground, pondering options he didn’t have.
“We captured three townsmen by an abandoned barn.”
That caught Darien’s attention. He turned back to Sayeed. “Take me there.”
They mounted up and rode out of town, surrounded by a protective ring of Zakai. They rode past empty buildings with shattered windows and out across a harvested field.
Sayeed led them to a dilapidated barn that looked to be standing only by the grace of the gods. The leaning walls were supported by angled beams hammered into the ground. A group of Tanisars holding torches stood in the yard in front of the barn, the wavering light writhing a tortuous dance across the ground.
“They’re in there.” Sayeed pointed with his sword toward the entrance to the structure.
Darien dismounted and strode forward, spreading his fingers, ordering the men behind him to remain in place. Sayeed and Azár at his side, he strode toward the barn’s yawning entrance. Within, a cluster of Zakai stood under the hayloft, guarding three bound men. Darien pulled his helmet off and held it dangling at his side by the chinstrap. He walked in a measured pace toward the prisoners, halting in front of them.
He looked deeply into the eyes of the eldest of the three men—a blacksmith, judging by the soot-stained apron. By his bearing, the man had probably served some time at the Front. There was no fear in his eyes. Just more scornful confidence than any man in his situation had any right to.
“Do you know who I am?” Darien asked quietly.
“I do.” The smith stared at him unwaveringly. His hands were bound behind his back, his legs lashed together with strong hemp cord. All around him stood soldiers with crossbows leveled at his chest. Still, the man showed no trace of apprehension.
Darien said, “You knew we were coming. So why stay behind?”
“This is our home.”
Darien shook his head. That wasn’t a good enough reason to make three men eager to die. He stared harder into the smith’s blue eyes, seeking there for explanation. Just in case, he reached out for the magic field and held it close. He said, “You knew you couldn’t win this fight. So I’ll ask you one last time: why did you remain?”
The man glared back at him with a disdainful, hard-as-stone gaze. “We heard what you did to the people of Gannet.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
The smith’s stare turned vengeful. “We stayed behind because we wanted to make you pay.”
Something detonated in a shower of liquid. An explosion of flames erupted from the floor. Darien lashed out with his mind, beating the fire back into the ground, reversing the combustion. The flames burned back into themselves, until even the smoke curled downward. Steam rose from the fuming ground, condensing out of the now-frigid air. Darien glanced quickly to Azár, relieved to find her unharmed. There was a bit-off scream as one of his guards shot a quarrel through a man hiding above them in the hayloft.
Darien’s stare locked on the smith’s.
The man’s eyes now contained the fear that should have rightfully been there all along. His face had gone white beneath a thick layer of soot. His two companions stood terrified, trembling in their restraints.
Darien informed them, “You made a mistake.”
He turned to Sayeed and ordered, “Let the forger go. Let him live to eat the guilt of his decisions. And tell the tale of what he’s seen here tonight.” To Azár, he said, “You’ve been wanting some practice. Go ahead. The other two are yours—make examples of them.”
He strode out of the barn, taking half the Zakai with him. He didn’t stay to listen to the screams.
“There was no food in all the town,” Azár said, removing her helm. She released her sweat-damp hair from its braid, letting it fall in greasy waves down her back. Darien pulled her against him, squeezing her close. She smelled of smoke and sweat and was covered in grime. To Darien, she looked beautiful.
He kissed her damp hair then released her, pulling back. He knelt to rummage through a burlap sack he’d brought with him. From within, he retrieved a parcel wrapped in cloth, the one treasure he’d managed to scavenge from Farbrook. He unwrapped the loaf of bread and handed it to her.
“I saved this for you.”
Her eyes widened as she stared down at the loaf hungrily. “We will share it.”
Darien smiled, shaking his head. “I already ate,” he lied.
He scrubbed a rough cloth over his face, wiping off most of the sooty sweat. He tossed it on the floor, then sat on their pallet watching Azár tear hungrily through the loaf. When she was done, she stood with her eyes squeezed shut in pleasure, licking the last of the crumbs off her fingertips. His own stomach tightened in envy.
“How are you faring with all this?” he asked. He wasn’t speaking about hunger.
Azár’s face went from blissful to ferocious in a heartbeat. “Those men tried to kill my husband. I wanted them to die slowly.”
He nodded. He’d come to expect nothing less from her than cold brutality. But he wanted to be certain. He didn’t want to push her past the limits of her morals.
He asked, “Which attack did you use?”
Azár smiled playfully, sitting down beside him on the pallet. “I tried something different.”
“Oh?”
She leaned in close and kissed him languidly, her tongue sliding over his lips. She whispered, “It is a surprise.”
He returned her kiss. Ignoring the empty ache in his belly, he pulled her on top of him.
They broke camp the next morning and headed southward into the deep forest of the Vale. As they left Farbrook, they passed a hill where a dozen long poles had been driven into the gro
und. On each pole, one of the town’s defenders was impaled groin to neck. Two were still moving, still sobbing and moaning. Darien didn’t need Azár to tell him which two they were. He was impressed. That had taken some skill, to impale men in such a way that they would remain alive to suffer the next day. He nodded his approval at his wife. Not because he took any pleasure from watching his enemies squirm on a pole, but because the people of the Vale needed a graphic demonstration of the consequences of opposition.
“Which town is next?” asked Sayeed, his face haggard.
“Kantsby.”
“I hope they eat food in Kantsby.”
There was nothing left of Kantsby. Just burned-out houses and watered grain—even the livestock had been slaughtered in the fields and left to rot.
There was also nothing left of Torwood.
Or Castleton. Or Glendoe.
Or Summerton.
“That was Ryloch,” Darien said, even though Sayeed had stopped asking several towns and several days back.
His legs trembled as he dismounted and stood exhausted, leaning against his horse’s heaving side. The wind breathed a sigh, stirring the branches of the oaks that folded over them, blocking out the starlight. He looked wearily up at Sayeed and shook his head.
“That’s it, then.”
Sayeed looked at him with eyes glazed and weary. He’d had that look ever since Farbrook, ever since the food had run out. Hunger had sunken his cheeks, making his angular features even more jagged. He turned and glared into the shadows of the grove, where the rest of their band had taken refuge. A form of silent protest, Darien was sure. He scuffed the leaf-laden soil with his boot, struggling to think through the fog that mired his brain.
“We can’t go back,” Darien grumbled. “And we can’t stay here. The only thing we can do is go forward.”
Sayeed didn’t respond. Darien reached up and stroked the delicate head of his red stallion. The soft fur felt like velvet beneath his fingers. The horse’s silken coat was the product of a thousand years of crossbreeding followed by another thousand of inbreeding. It was one of only a handful of steppe horses left alive in the entire world. With one last pat, Darien released the tasseled bridle.
The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy Page 125