A Time of War and Demons

by S E Wendel

  “Hold still, love,” Ennis said, cradling his battered body with her own.

  “Ennis, you can’t be—Larn’s—”

  “It’s over, love, it’s done. He’s dead.”

  Manek blinked at her, his left eye bloodshot, the corner of his eyelid sliced apart. She smoothed back the matted hair from his brow, wincing at the bloody mess of his face.

  “He’s dead?”

  “Yes. Manek, it’s over.”

  Manek buried a trembling hand in her hair, and she collapsed beside him. They held each other as the battle around them ebbed. They held each other, and they wept.

  Fifty-Eight

  In King Dunstan, Lady Adelaide saw someone as strong as she, and in Lady Adelaide, King Dunstan saw someone fiercer than he. It was a match only the gods could have made, and together they forged a new age.

  —from Chronicles of the Highland Wars

  Essa sent her last arrow into the back of a retreating Midlander, glad for a moment to catch her breath after the dizzying shake of the earth a moment ago. Her body was beginning to cool, the feverish heat of battle within her spent. It was hard to imagine doing so much, killing so much in one day. Was it still the same day?

  She’d been separated from the others of their band, but she spotted a few of them not far away, driving Midlanders back.

  It took her a moment to realize—

  It was over.

  Essa looked around wildly, a small surge of panic coursing through her. Where was Ennis?

  Essa clenched the reins in her fists and sent her horse into a trot. They skirted around piles of bodies, Lowlander and Midlander and horse. Themin knew how many bodies there were. Bile rose in the back of her throat, and she tried not to think of a number.

  Whatever it was, it was too high.

  She forced herself to look at the bodies only long enough to make sure they weren’t Ennis. She’d helped bury one sister already—she couldn’t bear to do it again.

  And then, glinting in the sunlight, was a Courtnay head.

  Essa sagged in relief. Ennis lay curled around Manek. Their lips moved, talking to one another, the world around them insignificant. A smile tugged at Essa’s lips while tears ran down her cheeks.

  Another golden head caught her attention, and Essa nearly choked on her cry of surprise. Waurin walked towards her, looking for all the world like Ean himself. He was grimy, covered in gore, and triumphant, his teeth bared in a fierce smile.

  Relief and joy shot through her, and she spurred her horse towards him at a trot, wanting to gallop but knowing the ground was too dangerous.

  “Waurin!” she cried when she reached him.

  He gave her horse’s neck a pat, but she was too overjoyed for that, flinging herself down into his arms. He caught her with an oomph, arms around her waist, and she clung to his neck, not caring that they were covered in blood and sweat.

  He chuckled once, twice, and then he was laughing, swinging her about.

  “Gods, you were magnificent in that charge. I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said.

  “Magnificent,” she repeated. “I quite like being magnificent.”

  His eyes sparkled in a way she hadn’t seen since winter, and something more than relief, more than affection made heart beat faster. The feeling terrified her, but it didn’t stop her from returning his smile, his gaze, his kiss. Waurin drew her up his body and scorched her mouth with his.

  She could taste the fierceness of him, the spice lingering on her tongue. She kissed him until surely the sun began to set, unable to draw away from the warmth, the relief, the comfort of it.

  Was this what she wanted? It felt so good to be in his arms, but was it just the relief of winning the day?

  Her stomach clenched, and though she’d faced down all manner of enemies today, this was the first time she was truly scared.

  Drawing back, Essa cupped his face in her hands, tracing the faint lines around his eyes with her thumbs.

  “Give me time, Waurin.”

  His next breath came out in a sigh, but he didn’t look angry. He pulled her into him again, embracing her fiercely, and buried his face in her hair.

  “I’ll give you whatever you want,” he whispered, kissing her ear. “You should know that by now.”

  Fifty-Nine

  She is everything to me, Adren. To Ennis I will leave everything—Highcrest cannot be in better hands than hers. She will lead them into a new age.

  —letter from Ehman Courtnay to Adren Dunstan

  The slight dip as Ennis climbed into bed beside him woke Manek from his doze. Cracking his eye open, he watched her gingerly arranging the blankets around her, careful to leave a judicious six inches of blanketed space between them, ever mindful of their bandaged bodies.

  He too was careful—when he pulled her to him.

  She let out an amused huff. “We’re supposed to sleep. Lora’s orders.”

  “Mm,” he hummed. “Should’ve thought of that before waking me.”

  “I did no such thing.”

  “I’m afraid you did.”

  She glared at him, but the effect was ruined by a mischievous smile tugging at her mouth. “Fine then.” She leaned over and kissed him. “Go back to sleep.”

  It was a challenge, one he didn’t mind losing. He arched a brow at her, blinking languidly.

  Ennis rolled her eyes. She settled in beside him, and he supposed he had to be content with that. At least until some of his bandages came off. But he didn’t have to like it.

  The left side of his face prickled, but he endeavored to ignore it. He hadn’t seen the slice before or after Lora stitched it up and wrapped half his face in bandages, a wad of cotton cushioned over his left eye. He didn’t need to, to know he’d have a hell of a scar. Lora thought he’d still be able to see out of it, given time, but Manek told himself to get used to the view from only his right eye.

  Ennis, who’d hovered at Lora’s elbow while she worked, had given him a strained smile and said, “You’ll be far too dashing with it.” He didn’t believe her for a second, but if a half-ruined face was the price for all that’d happened, he’d happily pay it again.

  His wife shifted onto her side, curling against him as she tucked a hand under her cheek. His wife. He smiled stupidly at that and was happy her eyes were closed.

  “What?” she asked.

  Damn.

  “Just thinking.”

  “About?”

  She knew what about.

  “Kennick,” he lied.

  Ennis gave him a look. “Oh?”

  Well, he wasn’t lying entirely—he’d thought a lot about Kennick the past few days, what with the entirety of his clan’s army camped along the riverplain. Kennick had marched with three thousand horsemen to Rising’s aid, and Manek knew, until the day he died, he’d be grateful.

  Though, in an odd way, he’d Verian to thank for the Lowlands’ victory as much as he did Kennick. Verian and the main Midland army had arrived two days after the first battle to find Larn and their cavalry rotting in the sun, crows and wolves already scavenging.

  At the sight of his father’s defeat, Verian hesitated. For a whole day.

  Kennick arrived the next morning and wasted little time driving the Midland army north again. Rising only endured an hour of besieging. Verian had tried again later in the afternoon but was repelled by Kennick and Rising’s combined forces. And while Manek would’ve dearly loved to leave the prick out to rot with his father, he was satisfied to know that, while the Midlands would be loyal to Larn’s son, they’d soon figure out he was not his father. Manek had no doubt he’d see Verian across the battlefield again, but he rested easy knowing he would never subjugate the Lowlands as Larn had.

  It didn’t hurt either that reports had come just yesterday that King Dunstan was rallying the Highlands against further Midland encroachment, which would inevitably shift Midland attention northward. Ennis hadn’t gotten her Lowland-Highland alliance, but they did have a reprieve.


  “He’ll be leaving the day after tomorrow.”

  “Mm.”

  “I was thinking we could visit him at Wheatfield in late spring. We could end our trip through the bush there.”

  She grinned. “I’d like that.”

  He still hadn’t quite swallowed the idea that he wasn’t going to be marching his men north come spring. For his whole adult life, all his planning had been centered around Larn and his next campaign. For the first time in years, he’d see a Lowland spring. For the first time in years, his life was his own.

  “Waurin thinks they’ll be able to shove off in three days.”

  “It’s lucky half the ships were salvageable after the attack.”

  Waurin had promised vengeance on the Oltaraani after seeing how much damage they’d done to the Carmetheon fleet, but the men were tired. Almost a thousand Lowlanders died to earn them their freedom. That was more than enough death.

  After careful consideration, they decided the ships would be sailed down the southern fork. It was shallower, with stronger rapids, but Waurin thought, so long as the ships were nearly empty, they could guide them from shore over the worst of it. No Oltaraani town sat at the southern mouth of the Morroley, so his fleet could easily set sail once they made it to the sea.

  Essa, though, was staying behind.

  Manek was disappointed for his friend, knowing the depths of Waurin’s feelings, but he knew better than to say anything to Ennis, who was overjoyed to have her sister with her. Essa had already been given a room in the great house and got along well with Kasia. He knew Ennis hoped Rising would become a home to Essa in a way that Carmetheon hadn’t, but Manek wasn’t so sure. He didn’t think Waurin would be able to let Essa go, not forever. He knew now he himself could never part with Ennis again.

  “Have you thought about what we should do with Kellen?” he asked, remembering how Essa and the little boy had played this afternoon, running around laughing as they chased each other. It had been a spot of brightness in an otherwise somber day, a relief to see the boy finding some happiness after losing everything.

  Ennis took a shaky breath. As sure as she remembered Kenna’s death, Manek saw Taryn on the battlefield, that spear run through him. It was too cruel, both of them taken the same day.

  So many had been lost; the price for the Lowlands’ freedom was almost too high. More than once in the past days, he’d held Ennis close and wept with her. There was finally time to mourn all that had been lost, and sometimes, Manek felt there was more to grieve than find hope from. Together they wept for their sisters, for Kierum, Kenna and Taryn, for all the Lowlanders, and Highlanders too, who’d lost their lives because of one man.

  “He should stay with us,” she said finally. “I’m sure Kasia would like someone to dote on, and I’d like to continue his studies. He hasn’t any other family.”

  “Yes,” he said, kissing her forehead. It was the least he could do for Kenna and Taryn.

  They lapsed into an easy silence, listening to the hearty crackle of the fire in the hearth. He’d grown to enjoy this, the quiet time with his wife before bed. Sometimes they hadn’t seen each other since rising that morning and they spoke of their days. Sometimes they held each other through the quiet as the fire burned low, and it was in those moments that Manek slowly began to realize that this was what his life would be, warm, cozy nights with his wife. He looked forward to it with a fierceness he’d rarely felt.

  After a time, Ennis shifted to look up at him. “Have you thought of a name?” she asked.

  “Not really. We don’t have family names in the Lowlands.”

  “But then, how do you tell which family is which?”

  He shrugged his good shoulder. “Ask. People usually remember far enough back to settle disputes.”

  Ennis made a face, telling him exactly what she thought of such a thing. He suspected she could draw her family tree from memory, all the way back to Corran the Stone-Fist, founder of Highcrest.

  “I was thinking,” she said, nestling so close their noses touched. “What about Kier? For your father.”

  He blinked.

  “Manek Kier,” she said, testing the name on her tongue. She seemed to like it, for she smiled and kissed him.

  He threaded his fingers into her hair, sighing when her tongue flicked across his lower lip. Easing onto his back, he pulled her onto him, though she was careful to angle away from his wounded shoulder. Too soon she pulled away, but he could feel her smiling against his mouth.

  “Well?” she murmured.

  “You make a compelling argument.”

  She laughed and nudged his nose with hers.

  “Kier,” he said and smiled too. It rang nicely in his ears. “A Lowland name if I ever heard one.”

  “Well, then, Lord Kier, how does it feel to be a free man?”

  He rolled, tucking her under him and balancing on his good arm. “Wonderful, Lady Courtnay,” he murmured from the hollow of her throat, bandages the furthest thing from his mind. Manek wanted his wife, wanted to prove to himself and to her that they had lived, but most importantly, that they would live.

  Later, when the fire had wasted to simmering coals, Manek and Ennis lay entwined, their legs tangled together, their arms clutching each other close, and Manek traced soft patterns along the warm skin of her back. Her soft, even breathing told him she dozed, but one last thought kept Manek awake as he studied the shadows pooling over Ennis’s face.

  It was time he told her.

  “Ennis?” He kissed her shoulder.

  “Hmm?”

  “I’ve been thinking…”

  One side of her mouth quirked up.

  “I was thinking—mind you, we couldn’t do it for some time, years even—but I think it could be done, and…”

  “What, Manek?” Her voice was a lazy drawl, as if she were falling asleep again.

  “I want to retake Highcrest.”

  She stared at him for a long moment, unblinking, searching his face. He gazed back, tightening his arms around her.

  “I’ve done it once,” he said. “I can do it again. I’d like to for a good reason this time.”

  “Truly?” Her voice was low, husky, and even in the dim light from the dying fire, he could see her eyes filling with tears.

  “Yes.”

  Cradling his face between her hands, she smiled and said, “You’re a good man, my love. My father always hoped I’d be Lady Highcrest.”

  “You will be. I swear it. But”—here he smiled—“what would you say to being a queen too?”

  Sixty

  Bleeding, bleating, death. Chaos—

  How the earth soaks

  With this Low blood

  Horses and men, laid on the field bare,

  Skin and teeth and bone and hair

  A sea of flesh, writhing, falling, choking

  Dagger and axe, sword and arm

  Look at our king,

  Look at his body, shorn at the neck

  Look at his head, rolling in the dirt—

  Tremors in the earth, lightning in the sky,

  See how men tremble, lining up to die.

  A golden sword for a golden lion,

  A sword she should not hold—

  See where it was, see where it is

  A new world I now behold.

  —“At the Gates of Rising” from Wanderings of a Moon Boy by Gaetien of Scallya

  In one bound, Ean the Deceiver crossed his brother’s roiling sea, his feet touching upon the soft earth of the Seat, the largest of the Green Isles.

  His Father’s presence wafted over him, dissolving the glamor that masked his true face. As he stepped onto the mountain, the grime and sweat of mortal life dripped from his skin, revealing the violet of his eyes and effervescent glow that hung about his honeyed limbs.

  With a flick of his wrist, he formed a breastplate from a wisp of cloud, a helmet from a hunk of iron, and a cloak from a shaft of sunlight. The brands upon his chest burned, reminding him why
he was here, and he schooled his features into indifference as he strode up the mountainside.

  He could already hear the Host’s whispers, and he smiled to himself. They could feel it, the change rent through the world. But they did not know.

  The further up the mountain he climbed, the more his mind eased. His arrival finally fulfilled a thousand-year summons he’d ignored. Always it buzzed in the back of his mind, like an incessant wasp, biting, stinging. Always Ean ignored it.

  Until now.

  He’d learned a great deal in his years of self-exile. The canyons of sandstone spoke of histories far older than mere gods. It was those rocks the mortals should worship, not the Host.

  He smirked. Perhaps they would, once he was finished.

  The craggy surface of the mountain began to give way to storied sculpture. The mortals’ history was carved into the stone, scenes of battle and harvests and life etched upon the mountain itself. The friezes wound round the mountain, circling up, up the rock-formed palisades, holding aloft Themin’s great temple.

  The mountain had not a peak, but a dome. Housed beneath in the open-air temple, ringed by concentric circles of colonnades, stood Themin’s Seat. A throne of obsidian, it was carved from a single stone, the arms worn and curved with time. Ironic, that the Seat should show time, when the mountain itself sat apart from it, a rock in a river, time flowing around it.

  He was barely up the last step before he was set upon.

  Tamea’s windswept hair billowed about her lithe shoulders as she bore down on him, her amber eyes burning like a wildfire. Her boots made no sound on the smooth floor. Neither did her hard slap across his face.

  He took it with little more than a lift of an eyebrow, knowing that would infuriate her most.

  “What have you done?” she growled.

  “Yes, Ean, what have you done?” That from Ma’an, standing close by with his boulder of a chest and crag of a face. Never one to be left out of a fight.

  Balan was most likely next in line. Ean would let them all have one good slap if it meant this would be over with soon.