She rose from where she’d knelt beside the soldier, and saw that some of the blood that had pooled on the ground beneath him had soaked into her leather leggings, adding to the stains already marring the material. Proof, if proof was needed, of the lives the day had taken and with no end in sight. And what was more fitting than blood staining the garments of the queen who had led this man and those like him to their deaths?
Captain Marcus was watching her with a troubled gaze, the other three guards standing with him refusing to look at her, as if by not seeing the blood covering their queen’s hands and clothes, they might somehow forget the horrid events of the last few hours. She had taken the captain into her service as a guard, believing that his assistance when they’d arrived back in Perennia to deal with Grinner had proven him trustworthy, and she felt glad that she had, for he alone had the courage to meet her eyes, to question her. Courageous, but wrong for all that.
“I will not hide away in a tent when I could be of some help, Marcus,” she said. “I will not ask others to die for me and refuse even to have the courage to witness their sacrifice. They deserve that much from me and more.”
The guard captain nodded. “Of course, Queen Adina, and I…the men, we appreciate what it is that you do. It’s only…it is dangerous, here. The few creatures that have managed to breach the line have been cut down quickly enough so far, but they have breached the line.” He glanced around, taking a step closer and speaking in a whisper. “It would not do, Majesty, for the men to see their queen cut down. It would…it would not help their resolve.”
“Then I suppose,” Adina said, heading toward another of the wounded even now being dragged back from the line by two of his comrades, “that we will have to not let that happen, Captain. It is why you’re here, after all. Isn’t it?”
“Yes, Majesty,” the man said. “And I and the rest of the guards will, of course, do whatever is within our power to keep you safe, will sacrifice our lives, if need be. But, Majesty…it must be said that these creatures we fight are beyond normal men, and should you remain out here, I cannot guarantee your safety.”
Adina stopped and stared at the man. “I grew up, Marcus, in my father’s court, surrounded by guards and men who had dedicated their lives not just to protecting my father, but all of his family as well. We had around us a castle, walls of stone to protect us against the world, yet still my father died. Still, my brother began to assassinate my siblings—tried to assassinate me as well. I survived that attempt, if only just, with the help of great allies. Yet still we find ourselves thrown into a war against a man that shouldn’t exist at all.”
She took a slow, deep breath, and shook her head. When she continued, her voice was low, quiet. “No matter how tall the battlements, no matter how thick the walls, they might still be broken, Captain. Even shields made by master smiths might be shattered. If my life has taught me anything, it’s that the only guarantee in life is there are no guarantees.”
The man’s mouth worked, as if he might say something more, but he only nodded. “Of course, Majesty.”
Still, Adina could see his thoughts lurking just under the surface of his expression clearly enough. “I will not make of myself an ornate sword in a wealthy merchant’s home, Captain, to sit upon a mantle and be admired, yet never taken down for fear of damage. A tool ignored and held in too high regard to be of any use, even when it might prove helpful in some small way. I do not deserve it—no one does.”
Adina watched the guard captain’s face, and felt some sympathy for him. Despite her words, the man was obviously torn between his duty to protect her, and the deference and respect he believed she was owed. She sighed and started forward once more, heading to the wounded man even now being laid on the ground in a growing line of his fellows. The guard captain would just have to look after his own worries, for she had greater problems to attend to. She knelt beside the wounded man wordlessly, grabbing gut and a needle positioned at intervals for the healers’ use, and began the work of closing the wound in the man’s arm. This one, at least, would not prove fatal, unless infection should set in. Something to be thankful for—monsters they might be, but Kevlane’s creatures rarely left a job undone.
As she worked, she thought again of the captain’s words, both the ones he had spoken and those which he had left unsaid. There was truth there, a truth she could not ignore no matter how many times she tried to refuse it. If she fell, the army’s morale would suffer a terrible blow, would grow weaker at a time when it needed every ounce of strength. But somewhere, among that battle, among those thousands fighting and dying, Aaron stood. And not just Aaron, but all of those she had come to call friends. How many still lived? Reports were scattered at best, and she’d dared not send a messenger that was sorely needed elsewhere to check on Aaron only for her own comfort. And not just Aaron, she thought again. Gryle, Leomin, Darrell and Sergeant Wendell. They were all out there, somewhere, scattered among the army.
For a time, once the fighting had begun, Adina had stayed in her tent, but soon her anxiety, her need to be doing something, had driven her from it. She had strapped on her sword before leaving—not missing the looks of anxiety shared by her guards as she did so—and then, despite Captain Marcus’s protests, had stepped out into the day with no clear understanding of what she meant to do, only knowing that the air in the tent had felt as if it were growing thicker by the instant, so that she could barely breathe.
It was then that she had seen the lines of wounded behind the fighting lines, the healers doing what they could, but with so many getting hurt so quickly, they were not able to keep up and so, her thoughts on the others, but Aaron most of all, Adina had begun doing what she could to help. And despite the fact that many of those she worked on were strangers to her, in binding and cleaning their wounds, she found some release from the fear that had been growing in her, fear for Aaron, that she might never see him again. And so each soldier to which she ministered became the sellsword, the wounds she cleaned and bound and tended were his wounds, the blood that stained her, his blood, and the tears that she wept inwardly, those that threatened to crack the façade of calm and confidence that she maintained with an effort, were tears wept for him.
Adina cleared her throat, forcing down the tears that threatened to come back once more and saying a silent prayer to the gods to look after Aaron and all the other soldiers, to make the passing of those who sacrificed their lives to protect not just their city, but their country, as peaceful and painless as possible. She had just finished sewing up the man’s wound and was reaching for a bandage when there was a chorus of shouts and the sound of fighting grew louder, more immediate, but she paid it little attention. The sounds of battle were all around her, after all, and stopping to listen to them would do nothing to help the man who lay on the ground in front of her. So she grabbed a long strip of white cloth from a nearby pile and began to wrap the man’s wound.
She was still working when someone grabbed her arm and jerked her back. She cried out in surprise, stumbling and letting go of the bandage as something flashed in front of her. She turned to her right and saw that one of the swift creatures had somehow broken through the line, and the soldiers there were even now fending off several of its comrades. The creature was covered in cuts and blood, and it swayed uncertainly on its feet. A quick glance to her side showed her that it had been Captain Marcus who had pulled her away from the creature’s strike, and the man let out a growl as he stepped in front of her, swinging his blade.
Despite its wounds, the creature reacted with a speed that—though slower than normal—was still faster than any man, and the momentum of its blow knocked Marcus’s weapon out of his hands and sent it hurtling through the air. The creature followed up the parry with a swift lunge toward the captain, its sword leading.
Guided by instincts from her training with Captain Brandon Gant, Adina shouldered Marcus aside, barely managing to get her own blade up in time to block the strike.
Her arms sh
ook with the force of the blow, but she was holding the blade in a two-handed grip, and managed to keep hold of it. Still, in her panic, she had stepped awkwardly, and, unable to pivot and use her body’s momentum, her return strike was weak, and the creature easily blocked it, knocking it wide.
A frozen instant in time, then, as the creature raised its sword for a strike she would not be able to parry. But suddenly a length of steel erupted from the creature’s chest in a shower of blood. A moment later, it collapsed, and Adina was left staring at the wounded man on whom she’d been working, the bandage that she had not managed to finish wrapping dangling from his arm. “I…thank you,” she managed, surprised to still be alive.
The man bowed his head. “Of course, Majesty.” Then he turned to Captain Marcus and the other guards staring at him with wide-eyes, as if he’d just risen from the dead. The soldier turned the blade and offered it, hilt first, to the captain. “Your sword, sir.”
Marcus recovered his wits enough to give the man a grateful nod. “Thank you.”
“No problem at all, sir.” The man rolled the shoulder of his wounded arm, wincing as he looked around at the battle raging on all sides. “Well then. Guess I’d better get back to it.” He bowed to Marcus then more deeply to Adina. “Captain. Majesty.”
They watched him walk back into the line of soldiers, heading for the front once more before sharing a look in which passed a world of understanding. And when Adina moved to the next of the wounded, the captain followed her in silence.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
They drove deep into the enemy ranks, the eleven Akalians creating the point of a spear, making use of what momentum they gained in their charge to stab deeper and deeper into the magi’s creatures.
At the head of the spear, the Speaker’s sword was a blur, cutting left and right as he and his brothers fought the battle for which they had trained their entire lives. All was chaos, the creatures themselves slow to react for all their speed, as if taken off-guard by the Akalian charge. Several were dead within moments.
But for all the Akalians’ skill and dedication, the creatures they faced were not mere men, to be gripped with fear and break at the unexpected violence that had come upon them. Soon they began to fight back, and one Akalian fell with two blades impaling him, another following soon after.
Yet still the black-garbed men charged, not counting their losses, not this time, for they were all lost, had been since they had taken their first step onto the wall. And so they cut their way toward the gatehouse, moving not like separate people at all, but like one creature, a creature of one purpose, of one will.
The Speaker didn’t know how long he fought, or how many of the abominations had fallen to his blade. His thoughts, in truth, were hardly on the battle at all, but on the family he had lost so long ago. With each strike of his blade, their forms became more distinct, and with each parry, they drew closer. He barely felt the cuts and wounds he received, for such hurts meant little in the face of the strange mixture of pain and pleasure the memories brought. His weariness, the ache in his muscles, too, meant nothing, for a man is never too tired to pull his loved ones close, to whisper in their ears that he is there, that he will always be there.
Eventually, he cut down another creature and saw that there was nothing between him and the gatehouse, save for a regular guardsman, his tremors at the immensity of the violence to which he had borne witness visible as he raised his sword. The Speaker paid him little mind, turning for the first time to look behind him.
Two of his brothers remained. Their black garments were torn and ripped in dozens of places, and everywhere their skin showed, so too did bloody cuts and wounds. One Akalian’s left arm hung uselessly at his side, drenched in blood that still pumped from a deep gash on his bicep. Past them stood the remaining creatures, six in all. The ground was littered with the bodies of their comrades as well as several black-garbed forms, and the gap which the Akalian charge had created was even now filling, as the creatures moved to encircle them.
The Speaker met the eyes of his two brothers. Then they each nodded, and in those nods was a world of understanding. They had come to the end of things, to their end, and that was alright, was as it should be.
“I’ll need a few minutes,” the Speaker said, uttering the last words he would ever say to one of his brothers. The two men said nothing, only turned to face the army of creatures gathering at their backs.
Now that he had stopped, the Speaker began to feel the full weight of his wounds pressing down on him, felt his vision growing dim as the blood he’d lost took its toll, but he forced his feet onward, toward the waiting guard and the key hanging from his belt. There was little time left.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
There was a loud, metallic creaking, and the western gate of the city begin to rise. At first, Aaron thought he must be imagining it, so convinced had he become that they would die here, standing before the wall of the city without ever having set foot inside. But the gasps from the others assured him that his mind wasn’t playing tricks. The Akalians had done their work and now, finally, the western gate of Baresh was opening.
“Come on,” he said to the others. “It’s time.”
The Virtue-bearers moved toward the gate, surrounded by the Ghosts. As the gate continued to rise, Aaron was able to make out more of the city beyond. What he saw first were the corpses. Dozens of them, belonging to the creatures and the Akalians both, and it was clear enough that there had been a slaughter. And among those corpses, stalking toward the open gate like some revenant returned from the land of the dead, some symbol to stand for all the pain and agony the day had wrought, was a man. His clothes had been black once, but no longer. Now, they were cut in so many places that they were barely clothes at all, and he was coated in blood, as if he had taken a bath in it. Yet for all that, the man made his way to the gate, and despite the distance that still separated them, Aaron recognized the Speaker of the Akalians.
Each of the man’s steps seemed to take a monumental effort, yet still he moved forward until he stood beneath the gate itself. There, he stopped, and Aaron increased his pace, breaking into a sprint. In a few moments, Aaron and the others were on him, but by then the Speaker of the Akalians had fallen to one knee, his sword—stabbed into the ground—the only thing keeping him upright.
Now that he was closer, Aaron could see the full extent of the Speaker’s wounds, and it was all he could do to keep from gasping at the sight of them. The others, though, were unable to repress their own shock and dismay, and he heard the sounds of it as they came to stand beside him. Aaron had seen much death in his life, far more than his share, and he had grown used to the look of it. It was not a friend, yet it was familiar, and he saw it now, in the Speaker’s form where the man swayed on one knee, gripping his sword with both hands.
Slowly, as if each movement were a great trial, the Speaker raised his head, and for all his wounds, for all the terrible abuse his body had endured, his eyes, when they met Aaron’s, were clear and lucid. “Aaron…Envelar,” the man said.
“Speaker,” Aaron said, surprised by the pang of sadness that stabbed at his heart. “You did it. You and your brothers did it.”
The man glanced back at the corpses of the other Akalians where they lay scattered among their enemies before slowly turning back to Aaron. “Yes.”
“Come on,” Aaron said, offering the man a hand. “We’ll get you a healer. There’s got to be—”
“We both know there is not,” the man said in a voice little more than a whisper, so quiet that the others—who had stopped a few feet behind Aaron—could not hear. There was no regret in the man’s voice, no bitterness, only a calm clarity that somehow affected Aaron more than anything else could have. The Speaker met his eyes, and he must have recognized the sellsword’s anguish, for he gave a small smile. “Do not despair, Aaron. It was always going to end thus, and—” He broke into a coughing fit, and the sellsword winced at
the blood that spilled from the man’s mouth.
“Speaker, I—”
The Akalian held up a trembling hand. “Forgive me, but there is little time. The great dark comes. When I die, you will receive the spirit of Aaron Caltriss, the Virtue of Will. He has told me as much. Use it, Aaron. Finish what we have begun, and do not let my brothers’ sacrifice be in vain.”
Aaron swallowed hard, nodding. “Of course, Speaker. And…thank you. Without you and the other Akalians…” He trailed off, unsure of how to continue, but the Speaker smiled, taking Aaron’s hand and gripping it with a surprising strength.
“The magi’s evil has marred the face of the world for far too long. For too long, the world has had to live under the shadow of Caltriss’s desperate choice, and Kevlane’s betrayal. End it, Aaron. Put the magi to rest. Put them all to rest.”
Aaron frowned. “I don’t…I’m not sure what you mean, Speaker.”
The man met his eyes, and in that moment he no longer looked like the leader of the Akalians, a man who had lived for hundreds of years and who had spent nearly all of his life in battle with the darkness always threatening to encroach on the world of the living. He looked, simply, like a man, one who had come to the end of his life and found that, despite everything, he was content.
“You will know, when the time comes. And please, when you remember me—remember me not as the Speaker of the Akalians, but as Raenclest, a man who did not always succeed in making the right decisions, but a man who always tried. Now,” he said, “if you don’t mind, Aaron, I would speak to my daughter.”
“Of course,” Aaron said, and he stepped away.
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