“No, Faoii-Lyn, there are not. Which is why we should be workin’ together rather than squabblin’ like the unascended. We knew that Kaiya and the Croeli might not return. We knew that we might have to act on our own orders rather than theirs. We are full Faoii. Even Asanali there. We are more than capable of doin’ what needs to be done.”
“Which is what, exactly? We don’t know what’s making Croeli-Thinir more powerful. We don’t know where to go to strike against him. We don’t even know where to go to strike at his army. Even if we march to where they were last, they can just move again.”
“Then we patrol. We keep ’im from taking any more of the people from the outlyin’ villages. We scout and gather as we’ve been doin’. And we strike when we have the information we need.”
“That’s not good enough! He’s growing more powerful every day! If we wait until we find more information, it’ll be too late. We need to strike now, while his army is still weak from the battle at the last monastery and their defeat at Cailivale.”
“What would you suggest then, Faoii? I’m listenin’.”
Lyn flashed a dark smile. “We know where he holds at least some power. I say we strike at the only stationary hold we can. Overtake it, if possible, and force him to come to us. If we strike hard and fast, we can take control. We can defend rather than attack.”
“The capital?” Eili’s remaining blonde eyebrow shot up. “That’s treason, girl.”
Lyn’s eyes were filled with bloodlust and spite. “Everything we do is treason. We might as well own up to it.”
Eili chewed this over for a minute before lowering her eyes. “I suppose yer right. And it does make a certain kind of sense.”
“The eyes on the wind will see us travel. The dark god’s pack will rise to meet us before we reach his walls of stone and sorrow.”
“Then we meet them before we reach the capital gates. Either way, we draw them out. It’s got to be better than wasting energy and rations wandering the world and searching for them.”
“We might not even need to do that much.” Eili rose to her feet and pointed toward the field. A single dark figure, a woman of lithe build and clad in Cailivale leathers, dashed across the snow-covered plain. As she got closer, Lyn finally heard the frightened cry of a bugle pressed against white lips. Eili frowned and donned her ivy helm. “Maybe you were right. We have been here too long.”
Thinir’s army had found them.
28
Tendaji steeled himself as Amaenel approached with a wicked-looking criukli and the copper vial. Night had fallen, and a full moon lit up the harsh, deep furrows that had been carved at Tendaji’s feet. If viewed from above, they formed a crude, simplistic star surrounded by a series of angular symbols. Amaenel’s men had placed a wooden altar at its topmost point before shoving Tendaji into its center.
“How much blood do you need?” Tendaji asked without fear or even anger. Amaenel faltered in his step for a moment, surprised.
“You have finally realized that this is necessary, Tendaji?”
“I realize that there is nothing I can do about it. And you’re right; we need to find out where Thinir is. I understand that.”
Amaenel nodded and stepped close to his old general. “I am glad to hear you say that, Tendaji. Truly. I do not need much.”
More quickly than even Tendaji’s eye could follow, he slashed down with the virgin blade.
A moment passed, and Tendaji almost remarked on Amaenel’s poor aim for missing a stationary target at close range. Then there was suddenly a warmth on his chest, and when he looked down he saw crimson blood oozing in a steady stream down the center of his ribcage. The stream had barely begun to trickle down before the copper vial was there, chilly against the warm flesh of his torso. Amaenel pressed it under the wound firmly, and the precious life force filled it.
When he’d finished, Amaenel made his way to the altar and began to chant. His whisper rose out of the silence of the forest, and at first Tendaji wasn’t even sure he’d heard it. But as it rose, its cadence changed.
Amaenel’s voice became hollow, booming through the ground like a far-off earthquake. It reverberated its way through the clearing and the trees, growing louder until it boomed through the night. Tendaji didn’t understand the words, but he shivered as they rattled across his skin, his bones, his soul. When Amaenel turned around to face the gathered Croeli, the whispers swirled around his cloak and the earth gasped as he poured the contents of the copper vial into an ornate chalice that had been placed at the altar’s head.
Tendaji lost track of the chant as it continued to swirl and twist in the air. Then, abruptly, it was over, and in the sudden silence, Amaenel discarded the copper vial and criukli blade. He grasped the brim of the gleaming cup with both hands, his face glowing red with the reflection of the firelight as he peered into it. His eyes were wide and eager.
The wind screamed. The night erupted into chaos as the chalice exploded with an unseen force that shook the earth and the men standing around the ritual site. Tendaji set his feet and remained erect, but he could only watch as Amaenel’s head was thrown back with the force of the chalice’s power. The wind around him caught at his hair, his clothes, his scowling eyes. Then, with a screeching howl that roared from the earth like a geyser in the night, the wind and Amaenel were gone.
In Amaenel’s absence, the chalice’s glow intensified in hue, and light sprayed forth from its brim toward the night sky. It swayed there like a desert mirage, flickering unsteadily. Tendaji peered at the shifting image, drawn by the glimmering red trees and firelight that appeared within.
He had only a moment to admire the ghostly tapestry, however, before the projected trees suddenly zoomed past with sickening speed. Twisting through the trunks like a bird in flight, the image covered miles of forest and valley, carrying Tendaji forward without grace or comfort, over rivers and fields, past landmarks that he could just barely glimpse. Zooming. Twisting. Ever forward.
Finally, the apparition sped up the side of a mountain that Tendaji did not recognize by sight and rested at the base of an old, dilapidated keep. Vines snaked their way up the broken turrets, and crows released their mournful cries in the shade of the broken stone. And yet, despite the desolate and worn exterior, there was a darkness within that turned Tendaji’s insides to water.
He tried to peer into one of the black windows of the keep, sure that whatever was beyond it would enlighten him to something he could not currently comprehend. But as he peered, a flash of light burst forth, blinding him. Above it, a feminine war cry rang out, equally similar and strange—like something he knew from long ago. He tried to place the cry, but it was immediately drowned out by the sound of metal scraping against metal, and a great bronze bell. Then there was only the sound of the dying wind through the forest as the image blinked out of existence and Amaenel reappeared.
Amaenel grasped at the altar, knocking over the chalice with his shaking, groping hands. Tendaji watched his own blood pool on the ground at his former subordinate’s booted feet. He felt shaky and nauseated. The entire experience had lasted no more than a handful of seconds, and yet he felt sure he had seen a lifetime’s worth of events between the images he understood. And he had only experienced a fraction of what Amaenel had seen.
“A map. Get me a map,” Amaenel gasped out as he struggled to stand. Torin produced one, and with a violent movement, Amaenel drove his blade into its surface. Tendaji strained his neck to see and was not surprised that the criukli point pierced a hole in the forest where the abandoned keep would be. Amaenel took a few unsteady steps to the chair that had been set out for him and sank into it, his breathing ragged.
“My lord?” Torin finally ventured. He set a steadying hand on Amaenel’s shoulder, but the older Croeli shrugged it off.
“I saw the keep that he calls home. I know where to go.” He clutched his head and growled under his breath, his voice filling with a rage that Tendaji did not understand. There was something diffe
rent about Amaenel’s eyes when he brought them up to stare at the full moon that hung above them. “But there was more, too! Something else that I couldn’t quite wrap my head around. There was a war cry. High-pitched. Faoii.” He spit the last word. “The other soldiers were right. Wherever you go when you Blink, it’s not of this world. There’s information there that we aren’t supposed to grasp. But I think we need it. Whatever Faoii released her cry—we need her for some blasted reason. And I don’t even know who she is!” Torin narrowed his eyes while Amaenel fumed.
“Do you want to use one of the other soldiers, my lord? We still have one more virgin blade, and Croeli-Tendaji’s blood has already proven to be effective. There are a few men in the camp that have Blinked before. They might be more capable of getting the information you need, if it is a matter of navigation.”
“No. No more Blinking. We need everyone at their full capacity when we do this. We’re already spread too thin.”
“What do you wish to do then, sir?”
Slowly, Amaenel raised his eyes to look at Tendaji, and a slow smile crept over his face.
“We need the Faoii. Of that I am certain.” His eyes darkened, but his smile never faltered. “Tendaji knows. He knows every Faoii left. Get the information from him.”
*~*
Daytime. It was daytime again, Tendaji was sure of it. He’d survived another night. Or had the blackness only been caused by pain? He didn’t know; he didn’t . . .
The broken warrior could not hold back a cry as one of his former subordinates pressed the red-hot sword tip against his thigh. He struggled against the bonds that were tied to the branch high above him but found no more success than before. Torin leaned against a tree a few paces away, his arms crossed over his chest. His expression was more of disgust and discomfort than rage.
Torin had never been far away during the last few days while Amaenel’s men had tried to extract the location of the Faoii army from their newest prisoner. But he had also never helped with the administrations of hot irons or barbed wire. Torin had not torn Tendaji’s fingernails off with blacksmith tools or carved deep gashes in his chest. Instead, every time Tendaji had been pushed past even his tolerance for pain—each time he had finally fallen into the bottomless well of unconsciousness—Torin had been there when he woke again, administrating bandages or salves.
Tendaji wasn’t sure whether Torin was still a friend or whether he was only trying to convince him of such. That uncertainty was a torture all its own.
The blade was pulled away, and Tendaji sagged against the bonds that held him upright. His cut, bloodied legs had long since refused to support him, and his arms had gone numb days before. A few times he had seen Amaenel, but only in passing. The new general seemed more than content to allow Torin to administer to Tendaji in whatever way he saw fit. But Tendaji still saw the impatience in Amaenel’s eyes, the hard edge to his jaw.
As though reading Tendaji’s mind, Amaenel stepped out from behind the trees that surrounded camp. He wore one of the horned war helmets, and the snarling mask glinted in the firelight as Tendaji’s tormentor reached for another red-hot blade.
“Enough. He’s never going to break. None of us would under the same circumstances.” He spat into the blood at Tendaji’s feet. “You can’t expect a Croeli, even a treacherous one, to give up information he doesn’t want to.”
Torin rose and gave a slight bow. “What would you have us do, my lord? Kill him?” There was no hint of remorse or disgust in the question, only duty. Tendaji’s heart sank, but he squared his jaw and remained silent. If he was to die here, at the hands of his brothers without remorse, he could at least do so with dignity.
The scowling helmet seemed even more sinister when Amaenel replied. “No. Traitor or not, he’s still Croeli, and one of the few people in the world not under Thinir’s thumb. We can find Thinir with what we’ve already learned, and we can sure as the broken blade kill him without a Faoii’s help. No matter what the Hag says.” Amaenel stepped close and lifted Tendaji’s bruised, bleeding face until their eyes met. “You were right, Tendaji. I need a contingency plan. You think that you can succeed against Thinir where my men can’t? Fine. Just don’t get in my way.” The last words hung in the air between them, filled with steel and ice. He took a few slow steps backward before turning on his heel and storming back toward camp. “Release him. Then prepare the horses. We ride against Thinir at dawn.”
Surprised and a little wary, Tendaji stared after the war-hungry general. The snow flurried in the wake of his blood-red cloak, masking him from view among the grey trees. In that haze of white dusting, Torin stepped forward, his criukli drawn.
Torin was fast. Faster than Tendaji remembered. When he was within reach of Tendaji’s bonds, he flicked his wrist upward, severing them with viperlike speed. Tendaji had just long enough to realize how easily Torin could have killed him when his legs gave out under his weight. He crumpled sideways, his eyes rolling back as his agonized legs began screaming anew, the numbness giving way to a torrent of injuries he had, thus far, not been forced to face en masse. The world tilted dizzyingly, and he fought against his darkening vision. Then Torin was there, supporting Tendaji with a strength that was not obvious in his lithe form. While Tendaji fought in vain to regain his balance, Torin lowered him carefully to the ground and went about bandaging his most recent injuries. Tendaji focused on staying conscious.
“For what it is worth, Tendaji, I hope you succeed.” Torin barely whispered the words as he sewed up one of the gashes that littered Tendaji’s dark skin. Tendaji blinked, surprised. It was the first time Torin had spoken to him since the fight next to the pit. He turned his bloodied face to meet his old friend’s dark eyes. They seemed sincere.
“Even after all of this, you’d say that to my face?”
“Of course. I’ve always been your friend, Tendaji.” Torin seemed hurt by the question, and after some thought, Tendaji reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder.
“Come with me then, Torin. Fight beside me as you once did.” Torin shook his head.
“I cannot. We are Croeli, Tendaji. ‘We are the harbingers of justice and truth. We are the strength of the weak and the voice of the silent.’ And that strength comes from unity. You know this.” Disappointed, Tendaji removed his hand and nodded once, leaning his head back against the tree. Torin finished the last stitch and pulled it tight. When he spoke again, his voice was firm. “The Croeli are divided. We are all weaker because of it. You cannot ask me to fragment that strength further.”
“No. I can’t.” With difficulty, Tendaji rose on shaky legs, then squared his shoulders and steeled himself. He put a hand out to Torin, who grasped his forearm in a friendship that still, even after all this time, seemed unbreakable. Tendaji wondered how he could have doubted that. “I wish you luck, Croeli-Torin-Amaenel. When Thinir is dead, maybe we will be able to meet again under more pleasant circumstances.” Torin nodded, and Tendaji released his arm, then turned away and limped out of camp. He wondered how he would tell the others what had happened here. It had been his idea to bring Kaiya alone. They had expected him to keep her safe. And now . . . no matter what their reaction, he doubted they could blame him any more than he blamed himself.
Yet another person’s blood on my hands. He cast a glance toward the sky.
“Kai, I’m so sorry,” he whispered to the clouds. If his little sister was able to hear him in the afterlife, she did not answer.
29
These were not men. They were silent, their eyes dull and listless, their attacks precise and deadly. Their kills were quick and fierce, but they attacked continuously, mechanically. No defense. No strategy. No fear.
And when they fell, they made no sound.
But the battlefield was far from silent. For two days now, piercing, terror-filled screams had spread across the blood-soaked plain. Women fell in droves against swords that dripped green with poison. Lyn watched in horror as skin boiled beneath the poisoned blades that her o
pponents cleaved the air with. The fast-acting toxin was different than what they’d seen before. It cauterized the wounds immediately, leaving the victims to die in a slow agony as their flesh boiled away in huge, open sores. The Faoii screams twisted Lyn’s stomach. And yet she pushed on.
Pain didn’t seem to affect the Croeli or hinder their continuous onslaught. The enemy continued forward as long as their limbs were still attached and as long as blood pumped through their veins. Those that fell, fell only because they lacked legs to move or enough blood to keep their hearts beating. But the Faoii still fell like mortals. Beyond this, the Croeli were inexhaustible, and fought on despite fatigue or the plummeting temperature after nightfall. It seemed hopeless. And yet, the Faoii fought on.
The women fought in shifts now, and while one half rested, the others held the line through darkness, snow, and pain against an enemy that was affected by none of these things. The battle was no war—it was a slaughter.
The Last Faoii Page 23