Elohl knew that look; he’d worn it on countless occasions – the look of a commander judging his assets in war. All faces held it now, no matter their nationality. These men and women hadn’t risen high in their military careers for being reckless. They were calculating what Elohl could do, and Fenton, and how that could be put to use in battle. Elohl stood firm under their scrutiny, pleased that they were thinking as a unit again, rather than a squabbling bunch of renegades about to defect in the army’s hour of need.
Just then, a scout swaddled in a filthy red facewrap galloped a lathered horse up the dusty avenue. Vaulting from this mount and throwing the reins at a startled groom near the horse-pickets in the shade of a tall jade phoenix-Monolith, he ran up the pavilion steps two at a time, heaving to a halt in front of Merkhenos. The man was all-over sweat and red dirt, his dun-colored jerkin’s buckles undone, soaked at the pits and chest. Hauling down his facewrap, he panted out news.
“High General! We have movement at Ligenia Bay! The Menderian host encamped there, some twenty thousand strong now, is preparing to march. Our spies estimate they will join Lhaurent den’Alrahel’s main force at the Aphellian Way within three days, five at the most. The Menderian forces upon the western Way make ready for their arrival. This mustering will put Lhaurent’s combined might upon the Aphellian Way at some seventy thousand strong, by our Watch estimates.”
Merkhenos stood very still as his Captains and Generals shifted, a few cursing softly as they took in this dire news. If their situation had been bad, it was now exponentially worse. Elohl didn’t know exactly how many fighters the Valenghians and their conquered nations had here on the eastern Way at their massive fortifications that spanned into both bogs, but it wasn’t anywhere near the force Lhaurent was currently mustering. With a hard smile, Merkhenos set a hand to the man’s heaving shoulder. “Get some water and a meal, Lieutenant des’Pannes. You’ve done well.”
“Sir.” The Lieutenant snapped a weary salute, practically falling back down the pavilion steps so tired was his jog. Merkhenos turned, watching the faces of his commanders. A brisk wind whipped through the air in the pavilion, cooling the tension as the sun finally touched the ramparts of the enormous Valenghian fortifications that spanned the entirety of the Way in the west. At last, Merkhenos spoke.
“Let this be a lesson to you all – a demonstration of Lhaurent’s power. What you felt from Elohl today is but a fraction of what Lhaurent is using to amass this incredible force against us. All of you heard the words of our Watch-scout. Lhaurent uses his gifts to smash men’s hearts, not just influence them – to take away their freedom so he can build this army that is double our forces here at the Way. His army is composed of slaves, gentlemen, stolen from many lands. We are all soldiers of our nations, my friends. And like any good soldier, what we long for is peace. But would you rather have that peace come amiably, or because someone forced it into you, breaking your will and taking your lands? For that is precisely what Lhaurent will do, if we do not rise up in a unified force against him. As much as I would like to return home, I cannot. For my duty is to oppose any who would take my freedom – especially since, like most of you, it has already been taken from me for so very long.”
A breathing silence moved through the pavilion. It was flaxen-haired General des’Finnes who broke it at last. “And Lhaurent? Would his abilities out-match Elohl’s in battle, do you think?”
“That, I believe, is up to Elohl.”
Merkhenos’ copper eyes rested upon Elohl, a deep thoughtfulness in them. Elohl understood the Cennetian’s meaning: that it was Elohl’s own strength of will which would face Lhaurent in battle, not the strength of the Marks themselves. Lhaurent was no stranger to his power, and he didn’t hesitate. If Elohl shied from stepping into the power of his own Goldenmarks, Lhaurent would vanquish them – and enslave them all to his will.
Elohl saw the man again in his mind; Lhaurent’s opal-grey eyes glorifying in the melee in Roushenn Palace. The Queen stabbed, the Elsthemi First Sword dead by Elohl’s blade. Lhaurent had stared Elohl down with all the coolness of darkwater eels strangling sailors. And that was exactly what he’d do, if Elohl couldn’t re-find the passion he’d felt in the White Palace, and use the fullness of his Goldenmarks.
A shiver moved through Elohl as the swirling air became brisk upon the arid plain, the pavilion cast in shadow now from the western fortifications. Looking out, he watched the fast-falling night, his heart simmering with trouble. Round and round his emotions went, like they fought inside him as the dry grasses rustled near the open-air octagon, picking up the evening wind. As if feeling his tension, a pheasant took wing fifty paces out from an open field near the edge of the northern bog.
As Elohl stared out into the settling evening, he found his heart filled with tumult, but lacking the steady passion he needed to best the man who was coming for him. He’d felt it in the throne hall of the White Palace, his heart bolstered by the raging heat of Dherran flowing through him and the connection of Ghrenna’s incredible presence. But without those aspects now, Elohl felt strangely uncoupled from the vision of peace he’d had then – all of his heat and power churning in a circle and dis-coordinated.
Come to me tonight. Elohl blinked as Ghrenna’s words breathed through his mind. Her cerulean eyes drowned his vision suddenly, as she rose like an evening mirage inside him. We need to talk, Elohl. I need to tell you things I’m remembering from Morvein Vishke, the woman whose soul I share. It has to do with the battle you now face, both inside yourself and upon the Aphellian Way. Come to me, tonight...
Her scent wisped away upon the dry evening and Elohl shuddered, feeling bereft. She was his passion; the only thing he had ever loved, the only thing he’d ever found worth fighting for. It staggered him to feel her touch slip away – leaving him feeling more churning conflict than ever. Elohl hardly noticed that Merkhenos had dismissed his commanders. They passed by Elohl on their way down the pavilion’s steps, skirting him with awed and wary frowns.
“So the Unifier commands men at last.” Merkhenos’ rolling accent brought Elohl back from his reverie. The High General stood before Elohl beneath the red silk awning, something flinty and pleased in his copper eyes. “My commanders were quite impressed by your outburst. Indeed, I wasn’t sure you had it in you anymore, so quiet have you been since we left Velkennish. But I see now that you simmer, deep with the challenges of the Wolf and Dragon, which springs forth when it reaches its own inner boil.”
“I’m no stranger to commanding soldiers in desperate situations.” With a deep breath, Elohl squared off to Merkhenos, shaking off the last of his strange fugue as he touched the cool steel of the longknife at his hip. “If they need someone to marshal them, to command them into cooperating with one another, I’ll do it. My own inner demons and conflicts will not prevent me from doing my duty here, though I would regret to have to force them to come to accord. But if I must, I will.”
“Your fortitude is well-timed,” Merkhenos gave a beleaguered sigh, eyeballing him. Shifting his attention, the Cennetian gazed out over the western fortifications, then to the south, watching horses and soldiers move in the whipping evening dust along the Way. Fenton had settled back against his pillar once more, arms crossed, watching Elohl thoughtfully. Elohl returned his gaze, unafraid of his choices, though his heart still felt like it tumbled around inside him. Moving to the command-table, Merkhenos stared down at the maps of the Thalanout Plain unrolled upon it, weighted at the edges by knives. At last, he heaved a deep breath and looked up, his copper gaze roving from Fenton to Elohl.
“Gentlemen,” Merkhenos spoke, “all has been said today that can be said. My commanders need some time now, to consider the things they have heard and make their own decisions about where they stand. In the meantime, although I am loathe to do it at such a critical juncture, I must take my leave tonight upon an errand. I will be gone two days; perhaps less. With Lhaurent’s army soon upon us, my return will be a close thing. In the meantime,
you shall have my personal guard.”
Merkhenos nodded to Ghirano and four of his elite Cennetian Red Valor guards who lingered nearby at the foot of the pavilion, watching the discussion intently, before Merkhenos continued. “Now that the Rennkavi and his Wolf and Dragon protector have unveiled themselves here at camp, word will spread. I ask you both to learn the temperature of the camp in my absence – feel what the men are thinking about you. Walk among them and hear their thoughts, let them see you and something of your abilities. I worry not that we shall attract Lhaurent’s attention now, but more that my men need something worth fighting for once they hear that we have a force twice our size barreling down upon us. I also ask that you be political, Rennkavi, in my absence – notoriety is upon you. If you are a commander of men in hard times, then be that – for all of us need it right now.”
Elohl was stunned by the Cennetian’s frank words. But he found the man’s cultural directness refreshing, and instead of being offended, Elohl set a palm to his heart and bowed. “Merkhenos. I will do everything that I can.”
“Are you certain you have to leave right now?” Fenton had crossed his arms at his pillar, staring Merkhenos down with an intent look. “This is a critical time for your men, General.”
“So it is.” The Cennetian nodded back, his battle-lined face frank. “But destiny waits for no man. Not either of yours, and not mine. This errand I do not with a willing heart, but because I must. Believe me, I would rather be here, preparing my soldiers for what faces us. But this errand, I’m afraid cannot wait, and may be instrumental in sealing our fortunes in the battle ahead. If I do not return—”
A strange look came over Merkhenos’ face suddenly. Reaching up, he unpinned his silver High General’s vines from his collar, pressing one into Elohl’s hand and one into Fenton’s. And then turned with a brisk nod to each of them, motioning for his guards to remain behind as he strode down the pavilion’s steps and through the horse-lines to the south.
Copper-haired Ghirano and the rest of Merkhenos’ guards gaped at what their High General had just done, their eyes wide from their spot at the base of the pavilion. And though they shifted uncomfortably, they stayed near, keeping their silence and slowly closing their mouths as they glanced askance at each other and watched Merkhenos disappear around a mess tent.
“Did he just—?” Elohl watched the Valenghian High General go, astounded.
“I think so.” Fenton watched Merkhenos go also, a troubled frown upon his features. Fenton’s gaze tracked Merkhenos until they could no longer see him through the fluttering mess of dust-streaked silk tents and awnings. Fenton scowled, and a prickle began to lance the air around him.
“Do you you know where he’s headed?” Elohl spoke, concern sifting through him as the bite of Fenton’s magic slipped over his skin.
“Not a clue.” Fenton heaved a breath and his prickling gradually subsided, as he glanced down at the pin in his palm. “But he really thinks he may not return from wherever he’s going. I’m usually able to read people better than that, but his mind is closed to me, Elohl. Illianti poisons, I’m sure, strong ones. But turning over his command... a silver dagger does not make a man an assassin.”
“No.” Elohl watched where the Cennetian had gone, deeply troubled. With conflict roiling in his heart, he tucked the pin into his jerkin’s breast pocket without putting it on. “I need to go think a while. You alright here?”
“Are you?” Tilting his head, Fenton gave him a searching gaze.
“No. Not really.”
To his credit, Fenton didn’t pry. Stepping forward, he set a hand to Elohl’s shoulder and gripped it. “Go have a breather. Come back when you’re ready, and we’ll talk about possibly leading a war without the one man all these soldiers really trust.”
* * *
Elohl stole through the shadows of the dark pre-dawn, dodging tents, stepping over awning-lines pegged into the parched ground, and skirting animal paddocks. Copper braziers crackled in the night and Elohl skirted by them, dodging Red Valor sentries. A shadow in the crisp night air of the Way, his crimson hood was up, darkening his visage as he slipped through the hush, moving around horse-lines without even a whicker from the drowsing beasts.
His wyrric sensation breathing around him, he moved toward the one place in the shambling, dug-in city that was unoccupied. Beyond the mess-tents and empty command-pavilion, the clutter along the northern edge of the camp gave way to a grassy greensward. Untouched by boot of man or hoof of horse, the clearing the pheasant had risen from earlier gaped at the edge of the northern Bog like a wound. As Elohl crossed into the field, he felt a prickle race over his skin and up through his spine, making him feel suddenly heated. As if his inner tumult raised twenty-fold, his skin crawled, and he pulled the hood of his Red Valor jerkin forward more as he felt his Goldenmarks light in a simmering flow.
No one went near this clearing, because of the thing that stood at its center – and this sensation it produced. No horses could be walked through this field, much less cattle. The Valenghians said it was haunted, with a specter of furious doom that arose in man or beast as they passed that invisible boundary. Energy burned in Elohl’s marrow as he crossed through the waist-high grasses toward a massive stone effigy in the center of the clearing. Conflict emanated from the ancient Monolith, carven like an enormous red dragon coiled into a ball with its snout beneath its tail. Unlike the rest of the Way, this Monolith stood alone and not in-line with the rest, as if its furious power might infect the other effigies of the highway. Gazing up, the sculpture blocked out the stars as Elohl neared. Wyrria poured from the thing as Elohl moved nearer. Heat roiled off its russet stone even at midnight, producing wavering currents that shivered the chill air.
Images of battle flashed through Elohl’s mind. As he put a hand to the dragon-stone’s warm shoulder, scenes of his own life tumbled through him. Elohl flushed, watching men slain. Seeing crimson blood wash over cold white snow and shed steam. Feeling his strikes as he slit throats, stabbed hearts, cut unprotected knees. As if the thing could read all his history of bloodshed. As if it ate that energy, drawing him in, emitting a slow pulse that matched Elohl’s own heartbeat.
He shook himself out of trance and pulled away. But as he did, Ghrenna slid into his sensate sphere. Near all night yet distant, her presence suddenly coalesced around him. As if the dragon-stone also powered their connection, Elohl’s sensation of Ghrenna became painfully clear. Even his feeling of embracing her in the Palace of the Vine hadn’t been this prescient. As if she manifested in the starlit dark, he saw her luminous outline – felt her touch like flesh as she set warm fingertips to his chest and traced his Goldenmarks, making them flare with blue-white fire, a sound like music and wind in his ears.
Elohl’s breath caught. He stared. Ghrenna’s body pressed against his, warm, nearly real. Layered upon the real world, she was an etheric shadow. But in Elohl’s mind-vision, she was there; and to his skin, she was there. And in his nose, she was there as he pressed his lips to her hair, feeling silken white strands move beneath his breath. Elohl’s hands stole up, holding her, slipping over the soft skin between her shoulder-blades. Ghrenna was naked beneath the stars. Her skin was supple, strong with muscle. Elohl inhaled her tundra-musk scent, sweet like wintermint and pines rooted in an icy stream. Her hands lifted, her fingertips touching his face. Pulling back, he watched her, their bodies pressed close in the night.
“How is this possible?” Elohl breathed to the darkness.
Ghrenna beamed up at him, her cerulean eyes full of love. Her beautiful lips curled in a smile both haunting and blissful, and it filled Elohl’s heart. For the first time since the White Palace, Elohl’s Goldenmarks blazed beneath his jerkin, flooded with their togetherness and with the oceanic sensation of peace he recalled. He wound his arms closer, drinking her in, never wanting to give this sensation up.
Your power grows, Elohl, Ghrenna breathed. Her lips seemed to move, but her voice entered Elohl’s mind with th
e night breeze that swirled around him. Do not fear your current conflict. The Wolf and Dragon battle in your blood because of your tumult, and so do the Goldenmarks feed, biding their time for when they will finally be unleashed.
“Conflict magic,” Elohl set his forehead against hers. “I can feel it. Just like in the White Palace.”
With each torment you face, Ghrenna breathed back, your magic grows. I know you hate it. You long for a home, for peace––
“For you.” Elohl slid his lips over hers. “I’ve only ever longed for one thing in my entire life, Ghren, I—”
I know. Ghrenna lifted up, placing the softest kiss upon his lips. I can feel it, just as I felt your call all those years. I knew we were destined, but I had no idea why or how until now. Ancient magic is wrought in your blood, Elohl, and mine. I am the rebirth of the only person who ever had the power to begin the Rennkavi’s Ritual, the final ceremony to bring him into the fullness of his Unification. My magic exists only to bring yours to fruition, Elohl – so you can Unite all of us against what’s coming.
“Lhaurent.” Elohl’s heart gave a flash of rage, and he stilled beneath the stars.
Perhaps. Perhaps not. Ghrenna’s cryptic answer made Elohl pull back until he could see her drowning blue eyes.
“Lhaurent has the marks, too, Ghren. He’s coming. If I can’t find it in me to bind men to me before he does—”
I know. Ghrenna’s face was somber, her high cheekbones catching the starlight. Lhaurent threatens all we hold dear. And if he wins at the Aphellian Way, nations will fall.
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