“Come.” Arlen beckoned the Menderian General up. “Let us return to the fortress, for we all have much to discuss this day.”
But though his words were for the assembly, Arlen’s gaze strayed back to the brawny fighter with the sandy hair with a soft smile, then to the Alrashemni-looking young woman beside him with something like pride. But the Vhinesse’s near-white eyes avoided Arlen as she turned her horse toward the river-ramps and the fortress. Arlen issued a hard sigh. Moving to the Menderian General as he rose from his knees, he set a hand to the man’s shoulder.
“Send a few of your captains back to deal with your men, Khaspar, then meet us inside. I’ll send down healers to help the wounded and start moving the dead so the river and your camp don’t become diseased. I’ll not lose more countrymen in this vile war than we have to.”
General den’Albehout stood. Clapping a hand to Arlen’s shoulder, he set his jaw. “This war is madness, Arlen. Something’s not right in Alrou-Mendera.”
“Indeed.” Arlen gave a tight smile and clapped the man’s shoulder also. “Far more is wrong in our fair nation than you know.”
With that, they turned, Arlen moving off after the Vhinesse. General Merra prowled after them on her enormous cat, while the young Alrashemni woman among the Red Valor barked orders for the Valenghian cavalry to begin setting up a camp on the eastern edge of the river-valley.
But Eleshen’s eyes were all for Khouren as he clasped her hand in the cold morning, his gaze upon her fierce. Eleshen smiled up at him as he took her in his arms, cradling her to his gloriously naked body and forgetting the rest of the world as they breathed together in the chill morning. As the rest of their allies moved horses and cats toward the river, its brisk flow smelling of fresh rain and victory, Eleshen lifted up and kissed her man.
Tasting ash and fire upon his tongue and loving him all the same.
CHAPTER 37 – ELOHL
The Aphellian Way was a triumph of ancient civilization – and a bane.
Elohl stared up at the Monoliths of the Way in the late afternoon, feeling intense emotions war within him as stark shadows grew long over the cracked red earth. Even under the shade of the red silk awning that served as a command pavilion, the sun wrecked its wrath upon the spreading plain. Zephyrs careened in the shadows, swirling red silt up around the bases of the dual line of Monoliths that stretched all along the thirteen bone-dry leagues of the Way, raising a cloying smell of peat and scorched herbs. Sounds of war-camp and the smells of horse and piss mingled with the swirling dust, coating everything that had the foul luck to move under the lowering azure sky.
War was hell to Elohl, and even in such a fantastical place, it was no better than it had ever been. Sitting upon the steps of Merkhenos’ command tent with one ear upon the discussion taking place inside, Elohl watched the Valenghian camp as he carved a piece of gnarled white yither-wood with his belt-knife, trying to soothe a battle taking place inside himself.
In the slanting shadows of the two-hundred-foot Monoliths, men toiled. With cloths wound about their heads, wetted against the parched air and red dust, soldiers heaved sacks of grain to mess tents. Under the vicious sun, men hauled on lead-lines of burdened oxen, who lay down in the shadows refusing to move; soldiers lingering in the relief of the Monoliths, resting for a smoke or dunking their heads in water-barrels.
The camp was a pressure-vat, cooked too long and ready to explode. Elohl could feel it, simmering through his every sinew as he carved. Blowing a shaving from his yither-wood, Elohl ground his jaw, furious that it still had no shape; no function. White as bleached bones and still formless even after days of crafting, the fragment of wood mocked him. Fragrant mesquite-citrus oils bled from its pale grain as Elohl carved, the bittersweet scent making his thoughts churn like the dry winds. Looming over the camp, some alabaster, some pure jade, others obsidian with runes of gold, the Monoliths around him were as varied as the clouds in the high, barren sky. Carven to resemble every fantastical being that had walked any earth, and even some that could barely be imagined, they seemed to watch Elohl’s frustration with accusatory eyes.
Lined up all along a road that went nowhere, there were no temples upon either end of the Way. No destinations, no palaces. Nothing of significance, although trade-villages had sprung up here time and time again as an important crossroads. Dead cities were buried in the edges of the flanking bogs, but there were no roads to those places – as if whomever had built those ancient citadels hadn’t dared encroach upon the Way. The broad, exquisitely level and un-marred highway of crimson stone simply passed through this dry and desolate plain, lined by effigies. And then returned to the earth at either end, giving up to arid grasslands to the west and cultivated fields of grain to the east.
Here Elohl sat, right in the middle of it all, torn once again from everything he loved and cast into the fires of Halsos for nations and kings. And yet, Elohl knew his purpose now, knew it to the depths of his being. He could feel the peace he desired – the deep peace that fed the Goldenmarks – there just out of reach. He’d felt it so strongly in the throne hall of the White Palace, as he’d been surrounded by Dherran’s passion, Ghrenna’s love, and Fenton’s blistering conflict while he bared his own nature to the furies of fate. But now, it seemed so maddeningly out of reach – those intense emotions and connections distant like a fading mirage.
Mirages surrounded him, here. Mirages of heat, war, and stark reality. The Aphellian Way was arid, and underneath the red silk awning of the command tent, the temperature was currently as blistering as Elohl’s internal war. Valenghian High General Merkhenos del’Ilio had just told his Generals and Captains that the Vhinesse had been killed in a coup, and Merkhenos’ best, a combination of soldiers from three nations, were in an uproar.
White or red scarves wound up over their heads and making them look like desert-striders, all of Merkhenos’ commanders had been stationed here at the Way for far too long. Flaxen-haired Praoughians stared Merkhenos down with defined jaws, their cobalt eyes the only cool thing in the suffering day as they held their long-lances, butt-ends planted stiffly upon the boards of the pavilion’s platform. Copper-haired Cennetians with dark brows and dangerous eyes watched Merkhenos with thoughtful scowls and arms crossed, fingertips perusing the daggers each wore in profusion upon their weapons harnesses.
The Valenghian commanders were no less adept in their austere fury, sun-chapped hands resting on tall silver spears or on sword pommels. Their long silver hair was braided back against the constant winds that dried their parched skin. These Valenghians were nobility, second or third sons and daughters of high houses conscripted into a decades-old war and left here to hone or die. As such, they wore finery to battle, even if only a pearl earring or an emerald pin in their jerkin’s collar.
One man, a trim, tall Praoughian General by the name of Greghane des’Finnes with a short blonde beard, spat onto the platform, speaking in a thick-slurred Common speech as his cobalt eyes flashed anger. “A coup? Good. With all respect, High General, if the old Vhinesse is dead, then Praough no longer has any stock in this war. Aelennia Oblitenne held our King Eleps des’Levanne in dangerous thrall, and he regrets acquiescing to her all those years ago. We all know it was wyrria. But an alliance no man of honor could go back on once he gave his word.”
“Truer words have never been spoken.” Merkhenos set his fingertips to the map table – currently covered in vellum charts of the local region – his copper eyes pure in his hate for the old Vhinesse. Dressed in crimson with his silver General’s pins of a trailing vine upon either side of his high collar, Merkhenos shifted, his tall black boots creaking at their knife-sheaths. “Cennetia, likewise, has no more stock in this endless border-battle.”
“See?” General des’Finnes waved a hand to his comrades, “even the High General agrees.”
“We all know whose vicious blades were instrumental in offing our Vhinesse,” one tall Valenghian General with a long silver braid, Suxisse Osenneaux, snorted, as
his lips curled in contempt for Merkhenos. “Her disgruntled fuck-boy. Or is that, fuck-falcon?”
Merkhenos straightened, going dangerously quiet even for a Cennetian, his copper eyes flashing murder. Leaning casually back against one pillar beside Elohl’s place on the steps, Fenton shifted, sliding into a stance that was not quite ready for a fight, but not far from it. Merkhenos had warned them that the command-meeting would not be pretty today, but Elohl had not imagined it would be this ugly. Clearly, the factionalism was deep, the simmering tension Elohl felt flooding him here at the Way a problem that had mired this campaign for years.
The Vhinesse had united three nations under her reign, but as Merkhenos’ copper eyes flashed, Elohl felt the temperature spike under the pavilion’s silk like a fever. A hot wind blew through, adding to the sweat that poured down Elohl’s back. And though the octagonal pavilion was set at the northern edge of the Way where the grey trees of the northern Bog rose up to command the sky, there was no relief here. The Cennetians and Praoughians were furious at having had to fight a war for decades that wasn’t theirs.
And the Valenghians were furious that their Vhinesse had been killed.
“Your High General didn’t kill your Living Vine. I did.” Elohl spoke abruptly. Tucking his whittling into the inner breast pocket of his crimson Red Valor jerkin, he rose from the pavilion’s steps to standing. Though he wore crimson vine-tooled bracers at each wrist, Elohl’s white sleeves were rolled up in the heat, his jerkin unbuckled and his lacings open, the Goldenmarks clearly visible at his forearms and on his chest with his Blackmarks. And even though the Goldenmarks weren’t currently lit, all eyes turned to him, especially the Valenghians, as Elohl stared them down. “And I would do it again.”
Uproar swept the pavilion. Suxisse Osenneaux lunged at Elohl, but Fenton was there, holding the man back with a blade to his throat. “I wouldn’t.”
“Hold!” Merkhenos’ whip-sharp command stilled the outburst. All eyes assessed Elohl, but not all of them were hostile, he found. The Cennetians were grinning, and one moved forward to slap Elohl heartily upon the back, while the Praoughians stared down their long noses at him, uncertain but appraising.
“And who, pray tell, are you to have killed such a powerful personage, Kingsman?” General des’Finnes lifted a flaxen eyebrow, his cool eyes roving Elohl’s borrowed garb and visible marks. “You’re no Red Valor, or I’ll eat my moustache. Neither you nor your companion.” He nodded at Fenton, who was slowly easing his blade away from Suxisse Osenneaux’s throat. Suxisse stepped back with upraised hands, though his pale eyes were bestial.
“My name is Elohl den’Alrahel, First-Lieutenant of the High Brigade and Kingsman-Protectorate of Queen Elyasin den’Ildrian. And this is Fenton den’Kharel, First-Lieutenant of the Roushenn Palace Guard, also Kingsman-Protectorate of Queen Elyasin.” Elohl used Fenton’s known name, as all had agreed it was a better idea to keep Fenton’s true identity hidden upon the Aphellian Way, for the time being.
“Two Kingsmen.” General des’Finnes wore a bemused smile. “And sworn to Elyasin? I thought she was dead.”
“She’s not.” A hard smile flashed in Fenton’s eyes and lifted one corner of his mouth. Elohl saw a twist of burning gold move through those eyes, and General des’Finnes startled.
“Your eyes!”
“These Kingsmen are being impressively modest, gentlemen,” Merkhenos smiled languidly, patient like a stalking forest-cat despite the heat – perhaps the only patient personage in the pavilion today besides Fenton. “You’d do well not to cross either of them. They have more talents than they show.”
“Talents?” General Osenneaux’s haughty voice was cutting. “Such as?”
“Wyrria.” Merkhenos’ indulgent smile turned upon the high-silver Valenghian noble. “You don’t think we simply danced our way into the Vhinesse’s throne room, do you Suxisse? Aelennia had no idea just what she’d put on her palladian chains this time. And it cost her.”
Six of the male and two of the female commanders under the fluttering silk awning startled. Their eyes connected with Elohl as they nodded deeply in respect. Elohl didn’t know the reasons, but felt intuitively that each had suffered at the Vhinesse’s hands, or knew someone who had, perhaps as a Falcon. But each of them wore pain in their eyes as they gave Elohl their silent thanks, hearing what position he’d held in the Vhinesse’s court and what he’d subsequently done about it.
All at once, some part of the conflict that simmered within him firmed. Elohl was glad he’d used his Goldenmarks to kill Aelennia Oblitenne. He’d debated over his decision as they’d traveled with a cadre of Red Valor Longriders from Velkennish to the war front, thinking perhaps there had been another way. But gazing at them now, those who had suffered under her leash, Elohl was glad he’d done it. Glad that he’d had the ability to roll her under his wyrria and use that moment of unity to send her back to the Void.
His Goldenmarks flared, as if recalling his decision and firmed by his sudden resolve. Commanders stepped back with a cry. The skin above Elohl’s open crimson jerkin and upon his forearms showed the Goldenmarks writhing an etheric blue rather than their usual sunlight-underwater, something harder, more edged than his feelings of peace and love. As commanders reacted to the sight, Fenton suddenly had a crackle of lightning between his fingertips, stepping in front of Elohl. Merkhenos raised his voice, ordering everyone to settle.
But the flare of power was like tinder in the dry heat, and the simmering tension exploded in the command pavilion. Swords were pulled by Valenghians, knives in the hands of Cennetians. Praoughian long-lances were leveled, the tall elegance of those eastern people bristling. The first flames roared with Suxisse Osenneaux’s quick strike toward Merkhenos, though the High General was already blocking the sword at his neck with a snarl. But in that moment, Elohl’s Goldenmarks exploded. A concussion of power hammered the men around him, staggering everyone back from an impending bloodbath.
“Enough!!” Elohl bellowed with fury as his Goldenmarks roared through his veins. “Be the fucking commanders you’re supposed to be, or I will do it for you!”
Commanders gaped. A few had been blasted to their seats and were scrabbling up, stunned by Elohl’s wyrric outburst. It surprised Elohl nearly as much, as if all his pent-up conflict had suddenly exploded into a steaming pit-vapor.
He let it take him – a scalding passion re-awoken by Dherran in Velkennish. Letting those emotions roil through the pavilion, Elohl flared with power so scorching that men flinched back with hisses of pain as if they had been stung. Many shielded their eyes as Elohl’s Goldenmarks dazzled the late afternoon, Elohl staring around, surging with wrath. He knew that he could take every man here. That he could master them. Force the Unity upon them, as he had done with the Vhinesse, until they’d no longer bicker and rake one another over the coals. Until they would fight as a united force against Lhaurent.
Brainwashed – no better than the Vhinesse.
The thought brought Elohl up short. His Goldenmarks pulled back to a simmer as his eyes connected to those who’d suffered the Vhinesse’s wrath. Those men and women had not joined the near-melee. Off to one side, they hovered with hands upon their weapons. Mostly Valenghians, but also one petite Cennetian woman and one tall Praoughian man, their eyes watched Elohl as they stood far back from Suxisse and his bristling guard.
“Would you?” Merkhenos’ smooth speech interrupted the stunned silence. “Would you use your power, Rennkavi, to force us to become one?”
“Rennkavi!” Suxisse’s white eyes widened. “Merkhenos—! What?!”
“Your Rennkavi has come, Suxisse,” Merkhenos gestured at Elohl with a deferential elegance. “You might wish to bow.”
The Valenghian’s eyes were enormous, as he trembled from head to heels. And just like that, he was down upon one knee, ducking his head with a fist to his heart. “Rennkavi! Forgive me!”
Three of the Valenghians and five of the Cennetians were now upon one knee before Elo
hl, as his Goldenmark continued to surge with light, though it was diminished. None of the Praoughians bowed, though they gaped at Elohl’s wyrric display. But Elohl understood that these nine who bowed were high up in the Khehemni Lothren of their nations, and knew what the Rennkavi was. It made Elohl uncomfortable suddenly. His Goldenmarks flared and Elohl resisted the urge to touch fingers to his weapons. He was about to say something, when Merkhenos spoke once more.
“You will all bow, gentlemen,” Merkhenos’s musical tones held a hard edge as his copper gaze raked his commanders, “if Rennkavi Lhaurent den’Alrahel has his way upon you. Elohl den’Alrahel is a reasonable man, and the power he has flared just now is little more than a reminder for all of us to be civil. But Lhaurent is not. He’ll make you bow if he gets ahold of you. He won’t give you any options.”
“Lhaurent den’Alrahel?” Suxisse Osenneaux’s head came up, confusion in his haughty pale eyes. “What do you mean? The Menderian warlord is another Goldenmarked? Is this some kind of trick?”
“Far from it,” Merkhenos spoke darkly, his copper gaze pinning his commanders. “Lhaurent is also Goldenmarked, and using them. Believe me, Suxisse. You do not want to be on the losing end of that battle. Which is why we must have patience and come to accord today. I have news that Lhaurent builds a strong army to push toward this encampment, even as we speak. A force intended to break our stronghold and invade all our nations, now that he believes Valenghia is weak. The Aphellian Way is our choke-point, gentlemen, against the tyranny that is coming. If this avenue falls, believe me when I say that we will all face a fate far worse than our dearly departed Vhinesse, or the power you feel flooding from our comrade Elohl right now.”
Those who had knelt now rose, wary as they glanced from Elohl to Merkhenos. Elohl’s Goldenmarks were settling now as the tension under the pavilion began to fade, though they didn’t die out completely. Briefly, Merkhenos held court, explaining to his commanders the short version of what Elohl was and what Merkhenos’ spies had also witnessed of Lhaurent. He gave a succinct explanation of Fenton, and the Scion of Alodwine lit a small golden flame in his palm, which drew shocked epithets. By the time Merkhenos was finished, all of his veteran commanders watched Elohl and Fenton with a level thoughtfulness.
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