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Obsidian Page 10

by Lindsey Scholl


  “What do we do now, Captain?” Reyn’s question was barely audible.

  Sedgar took it upon himself to answer. “What can we do? We go back and tell the king that Ulan is destroyed.”

  Gair silenced him with a look. Sedgar was just a few months younger than himself. Gair had chosen him because of his loyalty to Corfe and his skill with a bow but had heard nothing remarkable about his bravery. “You surprise me, Sedgar. We’ve only just gotten to the battlefield and you already want to leave it?”

  Sedgar turned crimson. “No, sir. I only meant that the battle is already over.”

  With a grunt, Gair stood up and checked the straps on his voyoté’s saddle. “We won’t know that until we get a better look. Merto, how close do you think we can get without getting detected?”

  Merto also stood and peered through the trees. “The grass is tall, but other than that, there’s little cover until we reach that rocky field there.” He pointed to an area of ground about three-quarters to the Wall that was protected by a small scattering of boulders. The turf around it was torn up. “That must have been where they got the rocks to block the gate. There’s no sense making a move until nightfall, though. Let’s just hope those Chasmites can’t see in the dark.”

  “And after that?”

  “I vote we move south, away from the gate; that’s the spot where they’ll be looking for action. But we must be careful. You said that you saw Sentry Chasmites as well as human: one from any tribe would be trouble, but remember that the Urabi are night watchers.”

  Gair agreed and told the men to rest as well as they could. Then he sent the munkke-trophe up into the trees to keep watch. Corfe had been right: despite his complaints, Ragger was a useful scoundrel who had a sharp eye and needed less sleep than his comrades. Night finally fell and the small troupe made its move. The horrible smoke had turned to an orange glow, bathing the Wall in a malevolent light but not extending its light to the field. They crept to the boulders without trouble, from which vantage point they could make out the individual shapes of the Easterners who guarded the Wall. To their surprise, the creatures were moving, starting to draw in toward where the gate had been. They had lit several torches so that their shadows crept high up the stones behind them. Their agitated movements were now cast in the eeriest of silhouettes. Several large Sentries appeared—Mholi, from the look of them—and started to lash ropes to the rocks piled up against the gate. Then, when the bottom boulders were secured, several of the Mholi took up the lines and started pulling. As the lower boulders shifted, the higher and smaller ones began to roll down. Any other soldiers would have jumped out of the way, but the Easterners, both Sentry and human, simply let the torso-sized rocks knock them to the ground. A second later they were up on their feet as the Mholi continued to pull.

  Gair could feel Sedgar shaking, or possibly it was himself. Was this the type of enemy they would be fighting? How could they possibly overcome things against which the rocks of Rhyvelad were useless?

  A crash resounded through the night, audible even over the cacophony of voices. The Mholi had not taken long to bring down the barricade. The boulders that remained in the path were hastily pulled away and the road was cleared. The spies watched, riveted, as the door opened and a dark screeching mass began to pour through it. The Easterners were on the move.

  They tried not to panic, although Merto couldn’t keep his voice from trembling. “Skies above, do you see what they’re doing? There’s only one city on that road.”

  Gair shared his alarm, but he tried not to succumb to it in front of the others. “At least they’ll move slowly. Such a large force—even one like this—can only go so far in a day.”

  Ragger had started wringing his hands. “Yes, but no doubt they can travel by night, as well. They’ll be in Lascombe in less time than it took for us to get here.”

  Sedgar jumped to his feet, eying the spot in the trees where they had left their voyoté. “Then there’s no time to waste; we have to beat them back.”

  Reyn pulled him back. “Get down, you fool! Do you think you’re invisible?”

  Gair stared gloomily at the orange sky over Windrell. Was there anybody alive in there? “Here’s what we do. Sedgar, Reyn, and Merto, move as quick as you can back to Lascombe. Warn the king.”

  “And you, Captain?” Reyn asked.

  “I cannot move as quickly as you.” He knocked his wooden leg. “If anything were to happen to my voyoté, I’d be a hindrance. Ragger and I will stay here to search Windrell. Perhaps there are some Ulanese still alive.” He did not mention that he might find Farlone among them. Such a hope seemed too far-fetched.

  “As you wish.”

  “Now go. Rest only when you need to. Reyn, you’re probably right about the Easterners: they may move slowly, but it doesn’t look like they will stop. You cannot let Lascombe be taken unawares.”

  The men saluted and hurried off, leaving Gair and Ragger, to settle down and wait. It would be a long while before that gate had vomited forth its last Obsidian regiment.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The triple lunos were high in the night sky when the final group of Easterners had disappeared beyond the horizon. The gate stood empty. The victors had felt no need even to shut the doors behind them. Gair suspected that they had not bothered to leave behind a garrison either, but he took no chances. As stealthily as they could, he and Ragger moved from shadow to shadow until they made it to the base of the Wall. Then they crept to the edge of the dark opening.

  If a garrison was stationed there, it was hidden under the debris. Gair had never seen the city of Windrell. He had heard stories that it was a lively town, not quite up to the artistic level of Lascombe, but still a hub of trade and learning in its own right. For the Ulanese kingdom, Windrell was a gateway to the west, to the rich plains and majestic peaks of Keroul. Now, the famous gateway had become a tomb. The silence was deafening, and Gair tried not to get sick as he looked at the remains. With no one alive to bury them, bodies were left where they had fallen. It looked like many were clustered around the gate in a last ditch effort to escape or perhaps to keep the fiends from moving toward Lascombe. Most of the bodies were men, but it did not take much searching to find the women and children who had tried to hide. They, too, had been brutally murdered. Gair shuddered at what their last visions might have been. He was sure that many of them had put themselves into Kynell’s hands before falling under Zyreio’s wrath, but eternal peace for their souls did not save their bodies from being ravaged.

  Shaken yet emboldened by the stillness around them, Gair and Ragger picked through random piles of debris, listening for any sounds of life. Once, as they were investigating an area at the base of a building, the wall above them came loose and they almost shared in the fate of the Ulanese. Only Ragger’s quick reflexes saved them. After two more close calls and a few more hours of searching, Gair was ready to leave.

  “There can’t be anybody left alive,” he whispered. Talking aloud seemed sacrilegious in this place. “And if there are, they’re further back in the city and can fend for themselves.”

  Ragger, as submissive as Gair had ever seen him, agreed. The two were about to return to the gate when the munkke-trophe held up a paw. “Wait, Captain. I smell something.”

  Gair raised his eyebrows. “How can you smell anything but burnt flesh?”

  Ragger didn’t answer. Instead, he scampered down the street, away from the gate, and disappeared into a doorway. Gair followed, although he traveled much slower on his artificial limb. When he arrived, Ragger was climbing, monkey-like, down from a ruined balcony, the staircase to which was nowhere to be seen. He was cradling something in one arm.

  “It is a human child, Captain.”

  “I can see that, Lieutenant. Is it alive?”

  “Yes, sir. It looks healthy, just a little hungry and, well…” he looked down at the child’s tattered diaper. “Messy.”

  “And the mother?”

  “She is with Kynell now, s
ir.”

  Gair nodded as he stared down at the infant. It was young; he had no idea how old it was, but not old enough to walk or possibly even crawl. It was crying, although it was so weak that the cry was really more of a whimper. He looked around the remains of the building. What could they possibly give it to eat?

  Ragger was stroking the child’s head, which had the most meager amount of thin, dark hair. Gair had no idea he could be so gentle. “We must get her out of here,” the munkke-trophe announced. “She needs food.”

  “Her?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right then.” He stopped and looked around again. His artificial limb was beginning to chafe; he longed to get out of this place of death. “Are there any more?”

  Ragger shrugged. “I cannot smell any more. It’s amazing that this one survived.”

  “Then let’s get her some food and, uh, some fresh clothes.”

  On their return to the gate, they dug up some clean rags that would serve as diapers, some more clothes to keep the chill off the little girl, and even a small store of food supplies. They found a bottle of milk that, while not fresh, was not yet rancid, and even some produce that they could mash down for baby food.

  It was well past dawn by the time they made it back to the copse. Ragger, whose hidden talents were revealing themselves through this new development, changed the child’s clothes and gave her some food. But Gair was anxious to press on. He watched impatiently as Ragger rocked her to sleep.

  “Get up, Lieutenant,” he ordered. “We have to keep moving. We will deposit the child at the first village we come across.”

  Ragger said nothing. Moving to his voyoté and mounting carefully, he continued to croon into its ear. Then he started. “Captain, I smell something.”

  Gair’s nerves, already frayed, caused him to jump at the sudden announcement. “What is it this time?”

  “Another human, sir. About ten yards through the trees.”

  “Ulanese?” His voice dropped to a whisper.

  “Her smell is difficult to place.”

  “Another her?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gair drew his sword and approached the trees carefully. Ragger dismounted again, placing the child between the protective front paws of the voyoté before he drew his own weapon. Together, they pushed through the leaves until they saw a woman standing in a small clearing. It was Verial.

  She looked thin, torn, and even wilder than when Gair had seen her last. Her clothes, which were only rags, were supplemented by bits of small animal pelts, rudely dissected. She clutched a knife and there was blood under her fingernails.

  “My lady, what are you doing here? How did you get here?” Gair couldn’t decide if he was relieved or angry to see her. When he hastened to cover her rags with his cloak, she only flinched away from him. She had come close to cursing Kynell the last time he had seen her—had she decided to return to Obsidian?

  “I…it’s my own business. I stole a voyoté. It ran off. I…I wanted to make sure you were safe.”

  He looked at her small knife and thin arms, and tried not to smile at the thought of her protecting him. Ragger, meanwhile, retreated to tend to the child.

  “Kynell kept me safe.”

  She flinched again, but did not respond.

  He waved a hand in the direction of the gate. “You didn’t follow me in there, did you?”

  She shook her head, causing matted blonde strands to fall around her face. “No, I couldn’t. I saw those horrible creatures and hid.” She dropped her gaze.

  Now that he knew why she was there, he wanted to comfort her, to put his arms around her and tell her that Kynell could defeat all of Zyreio’s efforts with a word. But of course he could not. Instead, he offered her his cloak again, which she took. “You did well to hide. We hid. I fear the Easterners are brutal.”

  She nodded. “I’ve seen them before, a long time ago, at a distance.”

  Gair grimaced. He had allowed himself to forget her age. Of course she would have been seen the battles of Advocates past.

  “Is there anything we need to know about them?”

  “They don’t eat and they don’t sleep. They’re constantly tormented by their own anger. They only do Zyreio’s bidding, which usually means they destroy whatever is in their path.”

  “So we don’t stand a chance.”

  “No.”

  Her resignation, so evident and habitual, galvanized him. They may not have a chance, but they had to try. Besides, Kynell was more powerful than Zyreio. He voiced this observation, but Verial only shrugged and followed him back to camp.

  Her meekness disappeared, however, when she saw the child.

  “What is that thing?”

  “A child. What else could it be?”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Ragger found her among the Ulanese dead. The Easterners must have missed her, or else not considered her worth their time.”

  She eyed the sleeping infant as if it would bite her. “Yes, but why did you bring it with you?”

  He looked at her, not comprehending the question.

  “I assume that you want return to Lascombe to warn them about those fiends. A child will only slow you down.”

  He mounted his voyoté, not liking where this conversation was going. “And what do you suggest we do with her?” The child in question had woken up and started to cry. Ragger offered her some mashed fruit.

  She would not relent. Rather, her voice took on a tone that Gair never thought he would hear from her. She began to whine. “Better to let it perish as the Easterners intended. At least then it would be spared suffering. And you would be free to do what you think you ought.”

  He could not believe what he was hearing. In his wildest, most carefree moments, he had thought about taking this woman as his wife. Praise Kynell that he had not done so!

  “My lady, need I remind you that the child is a ‘she,’ not an ‘it’? And my duty to Kynell is to help those in need. Can you conceive of any creature more in need than this abandoned child?”

  She retreated into a resentful silence and he had no desire to argue further. “If you care to join us, my voyoté can carry two. But we must hurry. The Easterners already have half a day on us.”

  __________

  The Easterners thrashed rather than marched, but they thrashed consistently in same the direction. They passed many villages on the road, much to the terror of the inhabitants. Fortunately, the villagers, unless they happened to catch the eye of a tortured soldier or ravenous fennel, were in no imminent danger. Somehow the writhing mass kept close ranks and therefore made good time. The army appeared to have only one destination in mind: Lascombe, Kynell’s city.

  It was only by changing voyoté at every town and sleeping while mounted that Sedgar, Reyn, and Merto were able to keep ahead of it. As they shifted in their saddles, they wondered if their warning would do any good. The creatures had appeared unstoppable. Walls and gates were little hindrance to them, as Windrell had shown. They tried to warn people as they passed, but it was news that no one was ready to receive. Nor did they have time to explain it. It was if a tidal wave were roaring through the Trmak desert; how do you tell creatures who have never seen more than a stream of water that a wall of it was coming?

  In the end, Reyn decided to tell them that the Cylini were attacking. It was a ridiculous lie, but years of Relgaré’s wars against the Cylini tribes had fired the Keroulians’ imagination into paranoia about the marsh dwellers. It was not hard to convince his hearers to flee while they still could.

  It was the three men’s good fortune that even they did not know the truth of who marched in the middle of that army. He was the only one of the thousands around him who looked untroubled. He surveyed his forces from the back of a common voyoté. He knew many things, though not everything. Of course he knew that three soldiers were racing ahead of him like hunted prey. And of course he knew that Verial had followed Gair in a pathetic chase. What
he did not know was what his opponent’s next move would be. Kynell’s plans were hidden from him. And that traitor Amarian was so covered by the Prysm’s protection that he looked like a wall of light. Zyreio could no more decipher the movements of his own Advocate than he could those of that Prysm slave. Indeed, when it came to any Prysmite, his vision consisted of illuminated splotches. At best he could tell where on Rhyvelad they were moving about. At worst, their brilliance seared his vision altogether.

  He sighed, and the air around him shivered. If only that useless, fickle woman had stayed where she belonged—at least he could have gleaned some information from her. But that was no matter. He had trumped the Prysm before and he would defeat it again. Except this time, he was tired of Kynell’s game. When he became victorious, he would be victorious for eternity. The days of the ten thousand scores were over. Zyreio was tired of cycles.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A few days after the Easterners left the gates of Windrell, Telenar reached Lascombe with his small force. They had parted with Vancien and Amarian at the outskirts of town, leaving them in the care of a loyal old friend of Chiyo’s. The brothers were not happy about the arrangement, but neither were they prepared to meet with Corfe. Vancien, in particular, was content to wait. He preferred to encounter the usurper with the risen Prysm army at his back.

  Telenar wanted to present himself to Corfe as soon as possible and get the unsavory meeting over with. He did not even allow N’vonne time to brush the dust from the road before he was pounding on the palace gate—or rather, glaring at a palace guard who did not share his sense of urgency.

  “Sorry, priest. The Advocate is occupied today.”

  Telenar felt N’vonne give his hand a reassuring squeeze. He looked towards her, hoping to draw from her patience. What he saw were the Sentries behind her, guarding the streets of Lascombe as if they were native Keroulians. How Rhyvelad was changing. He was glad now that he had left all the Cylini troops outside the city walls and let the other men return to their families. There was no sense in provoking an unnecessary fight. He turned his attention back to the guard.

 

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