A lifetime ago, Yurin and Hafgan had tried to climb to the top of the falls before enough missteps and near misses had set them back to the bottom, both exhausted and exhilarated. Now, Hafgan placed his hand on the first handhold, finding it easier to grip than he’d remembered. He pulled himself up, but his bloodied and muddied boots slipped almost immediately, his strength finally giving out.
A strong hand pushed him up from behind, and a slender hand grabbed his elbow.
“You’re not bleeding leaving me again, dimwit,” said Rian, scampering up a few feet and considering Hafgan with her gleaming eyes.
Yurin still wouldn’t look at his kin, but his voice held a smile.
“Shall we try for the top one last time, brother?”
Chapter 38
“We need to hurry,” Iolen puffed, barely following his own advice. The pasnes alna or Savant or Ardian traitor or Ardian spy—whoever he was—was apparently exhausted. And up to his elbows in blood.
Emma, just behind him, found that she was even more drained, though she had done little more than be threatened and attacked.
And murder everyone she knew in cold, icy blood.
That had only been a vision, of course, but it had felt so real. So very, very real. She could hear the accusations ringing through her ears. She could feel the weight of the axe as it met the paltry resistance of Morgyn’s skull. The warmth of the blood as it splattered on her face and exposed arms. And, through it all, she’d felt nothing.
And now she was running through Farrow’s Keep, toward the source of the attack on Dignity. Toward whatever had destroyed the tower with great bursts of emerald power.
The black cloaks were continuing to battle the attackers. Emma hadn’t gotten a good look at them yet, as her little entourage had managed to circumvent any major engagements, so she still wasn’t sure just who was staging this attack. Someone related to Recherche Oletta, certainly, or whoever worked with Dread. Someone who wanted Jecusta so distracted that they wouldn’t interfere with the hostile takeover of Ardia.
Ardia was such a small country compared to most of Saiwen, still somewhat on the frontier. It was rich in minerals, had fertile farmland, and boasted a relatively gentle climate. But it was nothing that seemed worth all this trouble. Nothing that would merit an attack from… wherever Dread had come from. From wherever Disorder had come from.
Iolen stumbled upon rounding the next corner in the labyrinthine maze that was Farrow’s Hold. Emma managed to grab his arm and keep him from tumbling to the hard stone floor. Though, she hurriedly separated contact with him when she remembered what he was capable of.
“Iolen, you need to rest. It will do us no good if we arrive and you are too spent to do anything but die,” Emma said. Nail limped to her side, followed by Havert and a collection of black cloaks who they had gathered along the way. The black cloaks who Iolen had drawn from had remained behind with an unconscious—but still breathing—Lord Unael.
With a cough and a sigh, the Savant relented and leaned against the wall. The clamor of battle seemed lesser here, and there was almost a serenity in the air. Emma had once heard, from a visiting merchant-king, that every great storm had an eye, a spot in the center that was completely safe at least for a short period of time. It was, in fact, the worst place to be. It lulled sailors into a false sense of security, so that they’d lower their guard and assume the storm was over. Too often, men were killed when that eye closed.
“My lady, you should get to safety. You shouldn’t be following this… madman,” Nail said, his face sad and serious, all good humor killed at the moment when his brother had been disemboweled. “We can go into the tunnels and wait this out.”
“The tunnels aren’t safe. Nowhere, right now, is safe. Dread may have left, but her minions will fight to the end. And that end will be bloody,” said Iolen, closing his eyes in apparent exhaustion.
Nail was right, though. She should leave Iolen to fight this battle. What could she, and a brace of tired soldiers, do to fight these powerful assailants? But, she was compelled to follow, as much by a sick curiosity as a sense of duty.
“Who are her minions? Who is Dread? Who in the fuck are you? What in the name of Ultner’s twisted cock is happening in this place?” Emma swore. To Pandemonium with decorum. She’d lived through her literal fears tonight—in comparison, very little seemed to matter.
Iolen smiled a tired smile. “That is a deep question. A very deep question, indeed. The minions part is easy to answer. There are three pieces. The first is the Oshwon, enslaved and mistreated by the Jecustans. They are the primary tool in this endeavor. Most are metsikas—wild mages. You might have noticed their tattoos. Snakes, birds, vines, trees. Leeches and greenies, many of them, with their affinities hidden in plain sight.”
“So, that green fire? Dignity? That was the Oshwon?” Havert asked, the usually stoic Sestrian guard seeming shaken to his core. Emma couldn’t blame him.
“A suit of armor with half a brain. How refreshing,” said Iolen, with a hint of his usual sarcasm.
“Watch yourself, mage. You have no one to suck dry within reach.” Nail stepped forward, one hand on the hilt of his sword.
“You’ll find that I am never quite defenseless, limper,” Iolen said drily. “Now, where was I? The Oshwon, yes. Obviously, they seek to throw off the yoke of their bondage. And, they have the power—if not the numbers—to do some real damage. Dread harnessed this, as well as their common ancestry, to launch a coordinated attack.”
“Common ancestry?” Emma echoed. She thought of Dread. Her accent was odd. Her features delicate. Her skin so pale as to have never been touched by the sun.
“Distant. Thousands of years, dating from around the Ascension.” He spoke of the religious and heavenly rise matter-of-factly, she noticed, as if it had actually happened. “The Menogans, from the other side of the Great Barrier, fought against the forces of Yetra. Most of the Menogans—most of everyone really—were decimated in the great battle that ended the war. Some Menogans—mages, all—managed to survive, fleeing and hiding to avoid persecution from Yetra’s few remaining followers following the war.” Iolen rubbed at his temples as if trying to relieve a headache. It was a familiar motion for Emma.
“And they became Oshwon,” murmured Emma, staring to connect the story in her mind. So, the ancestors of the Oshwon were Menogan mages. But… “Why did they flee? Certainly they could have turned the tide of the battle. I’ve seen what magic can do to an army.” Iolen nodded at her question.
“The Menoga were the most gifted of peoples, the ability to tap into miernes being widespread among them. But, rather than live in fear of their mages, as you Ardians do, they controlled them. Their mages were both enslaved and revered. Shackled and pampered. When their slavers were killed, the mages fled, cut off from their powers but also finally emancipated. The value of that freedom lives on with their ancestors.”
“The path of freedom.” Emma recalled Iolen speaking of this very thing, during Escamilla’s funeral. About how the Oshwon worshiped the very concept of independence. Had Iolen known that they would rise up like this?
“The path of freedom,” he agreed. “It would be easy for Dread to remind them of their past enslavement, these long-ago freed Menogans. It would be easy for her to focus their energies against those who subjugate them. The Oshwon would have little issue getting into position for such a coup; they move practically unseen, little more than spineless, broken servants. With a distraction—support from traitors among the black cloaks, and among your own men—it would be enough for the Oshwon to destroy Dignity.”
“My… my own men?” Emma gasped. She shouldn’t have been surprised, truly. But part of her still held out hope that maybe the mix-up with the guard at Escamilla’s door had truly just been a clerical error that no one could trace. And even if there was a traitor, it certainly must be just one twisted soul. But a whole group, enough to disrupt the hundreds of black cloaks on active duty in the Hold at any given time?
How could such malignance have spread among her soldiers?
“Don’t be so surprised. Certainly a serving girl—as you once were—should know that a bit of mold, when left untreated, tends to spread.”
Emma ignored the barb about her past.
“Who was the leader?” Nail demanded. “I’ll tear out his throat with my bare hands,” he sputtered in a sudden fury. He, like Emma, was probably thinking of that night where Disorder had entered Escamilla’s room unopposed and killed their liege lady and Nail’s brother, Hammer.
“Why would I know that, limper? You think I am omniscient and omnipotent?” Iolen smirked, pushing himself from the wall and staggering forward.
“Besides, if you just follow me, we’ll know soon enough.”
***
Lucind’s Square, the courtyard outside of Dignity, was a scene from Pandemonium—so much so that Emma feared Dread had returned.
She had been to this place several times; it was a great square four hundred paces wide and long in the center of the Hold, carefully landscaped with uniform evergreens lining cobbled paths. Fountains spouted up at periodic intervals, glistening with sparkling water and heated so that they ran even in the bitter chill of winter. Dignity rose far above, a great red tower overlooking the green like a benevolent father. Noble children could always be found here, playing children’s games and vexing the black cloaks who were tasked with keeping Dignity safe.
Now, the trees were a slimy gray, though they were hard to make out amidst the ashy mist that choked the air. The ashen trees looked like nothing more than great claws reaching up from the ground, seeking to pull her and her small entourage under. Dignity was only visible as smoldering emerald flashes in the sky as the fires continued to burn. Worse were the shapeless lumps, great heaps of burnt-out black cloaks who had fallen in this one-sided battle.
And the Oshwon were quick to turn their magicks from the tower to their oppressors.
Of the Oshwon, Emma could see no sign. But the mist obscured everything, filling her mouth and nostrils with the stifling taste of death. She wanted to flee back into the Hold, escaping the ash and discordant echoes of a dying battle. Iolen, though, continued forward with confidence, moving toward the waning echoes of battle. He paused only briefly, staring at a haphazard scattering of corpses. These men had fallen to swords and spears rather than green flame. Black cloak had battled black cloak here, traitors battling the loyal. Brothers battling brothers. Emma’s stomach heaved at the thought. Iolen pointed to one of the bodies, a man not quite dead.
“Bring him,” he commanded imperiously to Havert and Nail. The black cloak groaned, as if understanding his fate. Havert, features twisted in revulsion, looked to Emma.
“Do as he says,” Emma said, through dry lips. Iolen would need the injured man’s lifeforce for this. She wondered briefly whether this black cloak was a traitor or a loyalist. But, it really didn’t matter, given the necessity.
Havert stripped the man of his heavy breastplate amidst groans and weak protestations, and began to drag him along.
The sound of battle grew closer and black cloaks became visible around them, dark shapes swinging weapons at shadows. No green fire lit the air any longer, and Emma couldn’t see any of the pale-skinned destroyers. Perhaps the Oshwon were spent, or lacked the resources to continue their battle. She couldn’t make heads nor tails of this fight; for all she knew, every man here was on the same side.
But, through the gloom and amidst the earliest rays of daybreak, there was an occasional splash of color. It was almost a trick of the eye, so much did the brain strain to make sense of what was happening. But, focusing, Emma knew it was not her imagination. Here and there, there were men wearing dusty, golden tabards emblazoned with a river otter. A clever, playful river otter, indigenous to the Ingwine River—one of the central platforms for trade in Ardia, and the natural barrier for a major city sitting atop an island. Florens.
That was it, then. Eric Malless, son of the late Henrik Malless, was the traitor. He had betrayed them all.
Emma clutched the claw of her hand so tightly that the muscles might tear. The pain was the only thing that kept her from screaming.
“My lady, down!”
She was suddenly hitting the ashy ground, a heavy, armored body on top of hers. Her face rested in the grainy black dust, but she could see the ground illuminated with emerald, and could feel the blistering heat as a blast of energy tore through the air just above them.
“Amateurs,” muttered Iolen, a smirk evident in his voice. Twisting, Emma saw the Savant grasp the wounded man’s neck, supported as he was by Havert, and point his finger in the direction of the blast. A single orange ray of light darted from his fingers for a split second, so bright it left Emma blinking away the after-image. A shriek tore through Lucind’s Square, rising above the din of battle like a specter. It lasted for the length of time it would have taken for a man to expend the breath in his lungs.
Nail helped Emma to her feet, his face a mask of disapproval. She should leave. She needed to leave. But, even more, she needed to be here. She needed to confront Malless.
Iolen’s beam of light had dissipated much of the fog in the immediate area, and Emma got a better look at the square. Maybe a hundred black cloaks—presumably the loyalists—were clustered together near the west end, forming a defensive box that glittered with tired spears. Here and there, individual battles were still being fought, black cloak against black cloak, or Florensian on black cloak. Both sides seemed exhausted as they stumbled around the red rubble of Dignity and swung at each other with wooden arms. Hundreds of bodies were scattered along the square, too, and the traitors seemed to have almost triple the number of men still standing, including the Oshwon.
Fifteen or so pale tribal mages were scattered throughout the courtyard, as well, each guarded by a handful of Florensians. Most had fallen to their knees, exhausted beyond any ability to support their own bodies. Some had fallen completely, unconscious or even dead. Near one of the fallen, Emma could see the bodies of the two pasnes alna who had been tasked with guarding Iolen. Only one or two of the tribal mages still stood, and they did so on shaking, uncertain legs. Emma had expected to see fierce, proud warriors wielding the powers of Pandemonium. Instead, these men, these subjugated people who worshipped the path of freedom, of anarchy, were exhausted shells. They were almost… pitiable.
Iolen fired another blast of orange light through the heart of one as Emma watched, and the man fell bonelessly to the ground. And then another. And a third. Iolen was surgically removing the biggest threats from the battlefield, and doing so with little apparent effort. One Oshwon, leaning against a tree that still held some green, sent a wan green ball of power at Iolen. The Savant simply laughed as he deflected it with some sort of shield that Emma couldn’t see. The wounded soldier was transfixed by Iolen’s iron grip, fueling the man’s magic and dying in the process.
A group of black cloaks rushed at Iolen from one side while several Florensians came in from the other, with Emma, Nail, and Havert directly in their path. She drew her knife with trembling fingers as her Rotten Apple knights closed in front of her. The first traitor thrust a bloody spear at Nail’s chest. Pivoting on his good leg, Nail narrowly avoided the jab while slashing downward at his assailant’s arms. The man’s wrists were nearly severed as he fell to the ground howling.
Havert rushed at two other traitors, swinging his short sword at the man on the right while simultaneously blocking an attack from the left, knocking away the weapon with his buckler. He continued to bash away at one attacker, his usual precision-level skill trumped by either rage or fear. But, the traitor was skilled, and Havert could not break his guard.
The second assailant circled around the stocky Sestrian, raising his sword above his shoulder and waiting for a clear opening for a decapitating blow. His back was facing Emma; he had discounted her as a threat.
Emma clenched her knife. Another Rotten Apple Knight would not die for her, not this
night! She launched herself forward on wobbly, weary legs, stabbing her knife at the Florensian’s unprotected neck. It was almost too easy, how the blade penetrated his flesh, cutting skin and severing artery. The man tumbled forward, twisting around, with Emma landing on top of him, bruising her knees against the scorched ground.
She drew back her knife as the man still reflexively struggled, though he was covered in his life’s blood. Emma met his eyes for a moment. She knew this man. This boy, rather. Dying beneath her was Jeffers Reband, the same Florensian who had rushed ahead of his fallen party to deliver the news of Rostane’s invasion of Florens. The same boy whose father had fallen trying to carry that message, leaving his son to continue the fight alone. The same boy who had marched under her banner for months, fighting alongside Eric Malless and the rest of the Florensians.
“Why, boy? Why would you betray us?” Emma demanded in a fury, drawing close to his bloodied face with tears squeezing unbidden from her eyes. Jeffers merely gargled and reflexively coughed blood onto her cheeks before finally ceasing his twitching struggles.
Her heart grew hot, more so than ever before. Rage overtook her—an unquenchable fury over which she had no control. Emma grasped his bloodied head, gripping his hair and ears. She slammed his head into the frozen ground once. Twice. Three times. Feeling his skull crack beneath her sudden surge of strength. Slowly, only then did she rise and survey the battlefield. Oshwon continued to fall to Iolen’s bolts of power. Black cloaks continued to fight one another. Women warriors, armored in silver, had joined the fray, taking on all comers. And Eric Malless stood amidst a group of soldiers shouting commands and pointing in all directions. His young, tired face seemed closer than it should have been. She could almost smell the grease of his hair, and taste the bitterness of liquor on his breath.
Emma tossed aside her slick, crimson dagger and scooped up Jeffers’ fallen sword. The thing should have been too heavy for her, but she couldn’t even feel its weight. She strode toward the traitorous duke, ignoring everything around her. Ignoring bolts of power that barely missed her, and spent arrows that landed nearby. Soldiers stumbling around her. It was like wading through a dream; everything was moving so slowly, as if underwater, while she strode at a normal speed.
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