by Angela Boord
“Get up,” I say. “Now.”
They have to reload. We both scramble to our feet and run a zigzag line for the trees, hunched over as far as we’re able until the next shots ring out. It’s a long process of throwing ourselves down and heaving ourselves back up, but we finally make it, only to fling ourselves down in the leaf litter for a moment to rest.
“They’ll do a man some damage,” I say, breathing hard, “but only if they can hit you.”
“Why bother, then?” Mikelo asks.
“Because you can sit behind that damn wall and still kill people. It’ll be worse than longbows if the gunsmiths can sharpen their aim.”
“Why is Arsenault in Geoffre’s camp, Kyrra?”
I take a deep breath. “He’s bait. Cassis knew who he used to be. Jon must have convinced Cassis that Arsenault can use his magic to help them win, but if I know them…that isn’t the case. They’re trying to trick both Cassis and Geoffre. But I don’t know exactly how they’re going to do it—how they’re going to bring both of them down at once.”
“So, you’re not going to give it a chance? He can’t really die, Kyrra.”
“Just because he hasn’t doesn’t mean he won’t. It doesn’t mean that dying doesn’t hurt. And if he forgets everything… would you really want to have him fighting on the other side?” I push myself up. “You don’t have to come with me, Mikelo. You can run.”
He stands up, too. “I’m not a coward.”
“Neither is Arsenault. But that doesn’t mean I should leave him to die. It’s too great a sacrifice.”
“You wouldn’t let him give himself for the good of all Liera?”
“He wouldn’t let me do it. And what is his death going to serve? Then Devid will be householder, Cassis will be disowned, and Erelf—”
I look up, scanning the sky for ravens. A few black shapes wheel far above the treetops.
“If he has help, maybe he won’t have to die. Will you help him or do I have to do it myself?”
Mikelo gives me a small smile. “Can’t you just say that you love him?”
I don’t have time for this. My throat clenches.
“All right,” I say, tightening my hands on my hilts. “I love him.”
“Sometimes, love is greater than truth,” Mikelo says softly. “Let’s go. I’ll give you whatever help I can.”
Chapter 36
Lobardin said we were too late. He’s almost right.
The cannons begin their booming cadence before we’re halfway to the camp. Mikelo and I skim close to the line of earthworks to avoid them, but sometimes balls go astray. One crashes into the trees, splintering a tall pine with a loud crack, and the crown topples with slow, frightening grace, ripping through its own branches on its way to the ground. Its impact shudders through the forest, startling hundreds of birds into the air—ravens, eagles, hawks, kestrels, and falcons—a strange, disturbing mix of birds to see decorating the evergreens and leafless oaks like midwinter ornaments.
“Kyrra,” Mikelo says suddenly, grabbing me by the arm. “Look.”
He points downslope to Geoffre’s camp. At Arsenault.
Geoffre leads Arsenault by a rope tethered around his neck. His arms are bound, but Jon walks beside him, free.
I make a noise through my teeth and pull forward.
“No, Kyrra,” Mikelo whispers, tightening his hand on my shoulder. “Wait.”
He’s right. Arsenault waited until I dropped through the trapdoor on the gibbet. But it’s so hard to stay calm.
Geoffre jerks the rope around Arsenault’s neck and Arsenault drops to his knees in the mud. Jon stands by, impassive. I creep forward to see better.
“How close do you have to be to Fix?” I whisper to Mikelo.
“I don’t know. I’ve never tried to do it without touching.”
“Keep an eye on Arsenault.”
“What—” Mikelo begins, but I’m already gone, running low in the brush with my knife out.
Geoffre’s words float to me on the wind, in the intervals between cannon fire.
“This coward, this dog, has betrayed us all! I sent him to kill my treacherous son—to make sure the killing was done well. But he lost track of my assassin, and when he fell into the hands of the enemy, he betrayed his knowledge of our strategy! This dog doesn’t deserve the death I’m going to give him!”
A whip-snap makes me stop and peer out of the brush. There are a few shouts at Geoffre’s words, but most of the men watching this spectacle only look mildly interested. They’re gavaros; they’ve heard it before.
Arsenault kneels in the mud, his head hanging down, shirt rippling in tatters in the wind—his right eye swollen and half his face crusted with blood.
“The punishment for treason is to be drawn and quartered, the pieces of his body scattered in the four directions. We’ll make him a sacrifice for our god, for our victory—and we’ll lure my snake of a son down here to cut off his head! Victory will make your fortunes!”
At this last, a huge roar of a shout goes up.
If Jon and Arsenault are planning anything, they’d better do it soon.
I stop cold, my hands on my hilts.
But what if this is what they’ve planned? What if it’s only Arsenault’s sacrifice?
Cassis has Geoffre’s plan of attack. Cassis thinks Arsenault is going to perform some feat of magic that will distract Geoffre and cause hundreds of his gavaros to desert in fear. But what if Arsenault simply dies? Cassis’s flanking maneuver will generate enough confusion to give his forces a chance, and Arsenault’s death gives Cassis time to maneuver his men into place. Then Jon remains to see that Cassis and Geoffre both die in the charge. Taking Geoffre away from Erelf.
“Fucking martyrs,” I mutter.
The worst thing is, Arsenault probably told Jon it was nothing, dying to fight Erelf. Maybe it was even what he wanted, on the off chance that the gods would have mercy on him and release him from his eternal turning around. I wish I could blame Jon, as I have so many times before, but it’s starting to become clear to me what kind of partners these two men are.
I see the guard at the same time he sees me. For a moment, we both freeze. Then I rush him, drawing Arsenault’s sword as I run.
We meet in a flashing clang of metal. But I was the first to react, and I’ve got him down on the ground and I’m pulling my sword out of his gut in an instant. I wipe the blade on the grass and jam it back into its scabbard, then I take the gun slung across the gavaro’s back and grab the bag that holds the shot, powder, and wadding. I sling both over my shoulder and hoist myself into the nearest tree, climbing as fast as I can, startling ravens into the air. I settle myself into a crooked gnarl of branches just as a host of men run into the woods and find their fallen comrade.
“Tie him to the horses!” Geoffre is yelling.
“Which way did he run?” one of the men below me shouts. “Spread out!”
I pour the powder into the pan, then take the ramrod out of the bag and jam the shot down the barrel. Ravens caw and flap their wings, and I wave the gun at them, shooing them off my branch before I pull out the wadding and light it with a match.
Across the yard, Geoffre stands beside Arsenault while four men begin the process of binding him spread-eagled to two horses.
I push the lit wadding into the pan and settle the gun against my shoulder. Arsenault cranes his neck to look up, in my direction. Can he see me in the tree? Does he know I’m here?
I pull the trigger.
The gun kicks back hard against my shoulder, almost knocking me out of the tree. A horse squeals and a shout goes up among the men. When the smoke clears, I see why. The first horse is down, bleeding and floundering, just like I wanted. But Arsenault’s right hand is still tied to it. The horse dragged Arsenault down but didn’t roll on him.
“Where did that shot come from?” Geoffre roars. “Find the sniper, gods damn you!”
I reload as fast as I can and sight straight down the line of the bar
rel.
At Geoffre’s head.
Men bob in front of him. The men who were looking for me in the woods are coming back, having heard the shot and smelled the smoke. I can’t wait much longer.
Geoffre flashes back into view.
I take the shot.
It cracks in a pop of smoke and noise that shoves my back against the tree trunk. I can’t see Geoffre, but that doesn’t mean I hit him.
I sling the gun over my shoulder and clamber down, until I’m low enough that I can swing to the ground.
But now there are men below my tree.
I pull my dagger and drive my hobnail boots into their heads. Two of them fall, giving me time to hit the ground and bring my blade up in a slash that leaves another man bleeding. I whirl and rip the other man shoulder to hip.
I’m running before I’ve even pulled the blade all the way out of his clothes, crashing through the underbrush and out into the yard…
Among all the men who are running the wrong way.
Bodies hit me in their haste to escape whatever stands in the circle with the dead horse. I use my right arm like a battering ram until I see what everyone else has seen already.
Geoffre stands over Arsenault with a gaping hole in his head.
Dread gods.
Bloody, ragged, and smoke-charred, the hole makes no difference at all. It’s like I hurled a pebble at him, not a lead ball.
Birds of prey dive on the army, tearing at men’s faces and arms as the men push each other down in their haste to leave. Ravens swoop down upon eagles and hawks, trying to drive them off. Birds knocked from the sky thump to the ground, and men trample them on their way past, adding the sound of crunching bones and eagle screams to the cacophony.
“Here’s one of Cassis’s men!” a man yells.
“Damn him to his own hell!” another man shouts back. “This isn’t worth the pay!”
“Betrayal!” yells another, and I’m stuck in a forest of men and birds and blades, fighting me, fighting each other, fighting ravens and goshawks… Talons rake my cheek and I swing my right arm at a raven only to have it smash into a man’s face. I lose the gun, and it’s too close for swords. Just the thud of bodies, the slap of wings, and the smell of blood and mud, trying to tear my way through the kind of jungle that would grow in the underworld.
“You think you can win against me?” Geoffre laughs, loud and wild. “Have you ever been able to win against me, Ari Gunnarsson?”
“It’s not about me, Erelf,” Arsenault says. “I promised I’d finally cooperate with you if you’d leave her alone, so why don’t you get it over with?”
Geoffre/Erelf laughs again. “Yes,” he says. “Let’s get it over with.”
A man thuds into me and propels me backwards, knocking me down. Boots pummel me as I struggle to find my feet again, kicking me in the head, the back—
Magic swirls in the air. Another boot to the head and my Sight jars in.
Arsenault’s ropes turn into snakes.
He tries to remain still, but he can’t. Not with snakes coiling around his arms, twisting along the line of his shoulders and curling around his neck, flicking their pink tongues against his chin and collarbone. More snakes slither up his legs from the ground, twining around his knees and thighs.
I drag myself forward over the ground by my fingernails, kicking at men’s ankles to knock them away from me.
Arsenault grabs the snake around his neck and digs his heels into the ground, trying to push himself away. But the horse has the rope that binds his right arm pinned under its body, and Arsenault can’t stand up.
A man hooks his foot in the crook of my knee and falls on top of me. “Damn you, get off!” I shout, and shove him away.
Jon has been trying to stand by impassive, but now he breaks. “This isn’t what we planned, Arsenault!” he calls, and runs to Arsenault’s side with his sword pulled, striking out at the snakes. “I’m tired of watching you die, brother!”
“No! Jon!” Arsenault shouts, just as Jon is about to cut the rope that holds him to the horse…but it’s too late. The horse lurches upright just like Geoffre, in spite of the ragged red hole blown in its side. Glistening blue loops of intestine droop from the wound, but it begins to walk anyway, and the rope that binds Arsenault to it sings taut and drags him away from Jon, scraping and thumping through the dust. One of the snakes sinks its fangs into his chest and he cries out, scrabbling at its scaled muscles with his fingernails. The other snakes stretch and grow, anchoring themselves on Arsenault’s limbs and slithering to the horses that waited for his ropes.
I’m almost to the edge of men. Almost to the point where I can see what’s happening with my physical eyes…
Jon whirls his sword down, but bright silver shoots over the snakes like armor, and Jon’s sword bounces off the way swords bounce off my arm.
“You talk me into letting you die all the time,” Jon says, trying to hack another rope, only to have it strike at his foot. “But this is too far. How is it going to help anyone if you give yourself up to this god? It’s not honoring any of your promises!”
“I’m honoring the most important one -- the one I made to Kyrra,” Arsenault rasps.
“What shall I do to you this time?” Erelf says. “I don’t think you’ve ever been pulled apart, have you? Do you think I could put you together again?”
“As long as you honor our agreement,” Arsenault grinds out through gritted teeth. The snakes are wrapped tight around the legs of the other three horses now. The horses stamp and shift, pulling him in different directions with every movement. With my Sight, I can see the strain on Arsenault’s face.
“Of course,” Erelf says. “But when you come back—however you come back after you die in pieces—and I take your memory…then I can do whatever I want, can’t I? I mean, I’ll have you do whatever I want, because that was our deal, but perhaps I’ll just rob her from you forever, too. If you can’t remember what we agreed, you won’t care what I do, will you?”
Arsenault growls in rage and yanks against the snake-ropes. Metal cracks down their lengths, screaming as it pulls apart. But then magic slams him back. The horses, startled, shy in pairs in opposite directions. The sound of Arsenault’s rage turns into an animal cry of pain as his limbs are pulled to the edge of their sockets.
Jon hurls his sword to the ground and darts to catch the horses that are tearing Arsenault apart. He throws all his weight into stopping them and speaks in a soothing voice, pulling them back.
I thrust my way up out of the muddle of trampling feet, using my arm like a club. “Leave him, Erelf!” I shout. “I’ll fight you!”
Geoffre—Erelf—turns around in amazement. The wound in his head is like a window into the structure of his skull—blackened and red flesh underlaid with chips of white bone and gray brain matter. But it’s already starting to heal, the edges of the wound groping together like wriggling worms.
His lips twist into an expression like a smile but devoid of human emotion. “And here you are. Little bird. Right into my hands, in spite of what he’s done to prevent it.”
“Kyrra! Don’t!” Arsenault shouts.
“Kyrra,” Jon says softly, trying not to startle the horses. “Perhaps you can talk some sense into him. Or into this god.”
“I know you had it all set up,” Arsenault says. “But this is something I have to do.”
I draw my sword—Arsenault’s sword—and rock back on my heels in front of Erelf. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Arsenault.”
“Erelf,” Arsenault says weakly. “We still have a deal.”
“The terms will be null and void if she tries to attack me,” Erelf says in a bemused way that surely owes at least as much to Geoffre as the god inside him.
“The terms were terms. No exceptions.”
“Neither of you has the right to bargain for me,” I say. “Especially since I don’t know what you’re bargaining for.”
“Go ahead,” Erelf says. “Tell
her before the poison begins working on your vocal chords.”
“He wants you as a bride,” Arsenault chokes out.
For a moment, I can’t be sure I’ve heard him right. But then Jon groans and my surprise turns to fear and revulsion.
I adjust my grip on my sword and look Erelf—Geoffre—up and down.
“I’ve had better suitors,” I say.
Erelf shrugs. “I’ve had better brides. But you have all the abilities I need. And the right genealogy.”
“I told you,” Arsenault says. “There’s more to your father’s lands. More to you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me the whole story?”
“Took me a while to figure it out. If I told you…he would know. I didn’t want him to know. Where you were, that you knew about him.”
“Oh, I knew about you.” Geoffre dusts off his sleeves. His wound is still knitting itself. If I’m going to have a chance against him, it has to be soon, before that wound heals entirely. “After all, we did have some interesting conversations, didn’t we, Kyrra?”
Arsenault curses without opening his eyes and laughs in that helpless, defeated way exhausted men have. “So, everything I did…it was for nothing?”
I step forward, settling my sword into guard. “You’re a god of lies. You left me alone for five years until I entered your temple to buy a knife. If you’d been able to carry me off, you would have, so there must be something stopping you. Is it Arsenault? Me? Something else? Ires maybe, or Ekyra?”
An emotion flickers in the god’s eyes. It’s not exactly fear, but it tells me I’m on the right trail.
“I never lie,” he says. “Sometimes, I don’t call attention to the entire truth, but I never lie.”
“Never? You killed your own brother. The stories say it was an accident, but you knew it was him. You shot him on purpose.”
“Have I ever said otherwise? It only comes out different in stories. Mortals need to wash us clean. It’s too hard otherwise for you to imagine a god.”
He runs his hand over the flank of one of the horses bound to Arsenault. Its muscles shiver underneath the skin.
Jon tightens his grip on the bridles. “It’s too much, what you’re doing, even for a god. Aren’t there some rules about this sentence of his? Can’t we make another agreement? I’m sure Kyrra would weigh in on the bargain.”