“At a rough count? Five thousand, going in, but we accounted for a fair few of those before the end,” Amris said, and showed his teeth in a smile. “I could say at least half and not think myself vain.”
“We’ve killed a few hundred since then, over the years. Some of them might have killed each other,” Darya added, paraphrasing her lessons. “I don’t think they get replacements as fast as we do.”
“Better not to underestimate, even so,” said Hallis. Darya saw the look on his face, the narrow focus that sliced away all panic and fear and left only the situation and the next steps. “Call it three thousand on their way here. We have a hundred and twelve trained soldiers on hand. Say another hundred or so peasants we can stick up on the walls with spears and hunting bows, assuming they don’t all bolt when they hear the news.”
“Mages? Priests? Healers?”
“One army wizard. A priest of Sitha, a Mourner, and a couple herbalists here. I think the village has a midwife, maybe someone to see to sick goats and whatnot. One of Tinival’s knights was stopping here for a few days—I counted him in the hundred and twelve, though he’s worth three or four normal soldiers in a fight.”
“So are we,” Darya put in, touching the hilt of her sword reflexively, though she knew Gerant wouldn’t answer. “And that’s not vanity either.” It wasn’t, but she was glad to have something to say. Here, with Hallis, Amris was speaking not as the man in the woods, displaced from his time, but as a commander—and she, who’d almost always ridden and fought alone, didn’t know that language nearly as well.
When Amris smiled again and said, “You speak truly, if you’re any measure—and of matters beyond my experience,” she felt ridiculously proud of herself.
It’s the end of the world, Gerant would’ve said, and you’re still showing off for handsome men.
At least, he would have said it if the handsome man on the other end of the sofa had been anyone else.
“Good,” said Hallis, “and glad to hear it. I haven’t seen your people in action very often, Sentinel, but there are three others here at present. I’d counted them among our ranks, though I knew you had…” He hesitated over the term, which clearly wanted to come out uncanny powers, and finished with “abilities we lack.”
Darya didn’t protest. Yes, everyone had abilities the next person lacked, but not everyone had the sort that’d come in handy in a fight, particularly against twistedmen and whatever other monsters Thyran was going to throw at them. This wasn’t a situation for humility.
“The high ground and the fortifications are ours,” Amris added, “and I’m sure you know the use of them well. That will count for a great deal. Thyran ever struck from ambush and at the unguarded when he could.”
“There’s that. And with the warning you’ve brought, we can prepare a few more defenses and get the civilians to safety. Speaking of which…” Hallis frowned. “We’ve no chance of keeping your return quiet, and I’ve already heard of your mounts. I’d thought to put the official word about tomorrow, but it might be best done tonight. I’m not sure.”
“Spare no time, I’d think,” said Amris. “The further in advance people know the truth, the more distance those fleeing can put between themselves and this fortress, and the less rumors will spread.”
Darya shook her head. “Normally, you’d be right. But it’ll be full dark when the news gets out, we’re on the edge of enemy territory and in the middle of nowhere, and the roads out here are piss-poor even by day. The messengers would probably manage well enough, with lanterns and whatnot, but you spread the word now and you’ll get a bunch of old folks and children running off. Half of ’em will break their legs and get eaten by wolves, or worse.”
Briefly, Amris wore an expression that Darya was getting used to: a combination of surprise and sorrow that translated to I hadn’t realized how shitty the world had gotten, though she knew he would have said so more politely, and only if pressed. “They could leave tomorrow, and use the time to pack their belongings,” he said, but he didn’t sound convinced. He’d been a farm boy, and he’d led men. He knew people, even when he didn’t want to admit it.
“Some might,” said Darya. She softened her voice, sorry that she had to make him confront one more bit of horror tonight, but not sorry that she was doing it. As with being humble about her gifts, this wasn’t the time. “Lots wouldn’t. And bad news is always worse in darkness. There are other ways of running.”
“A moment,” said Hallis. He rearranged the scrolls on his desk, regarded the resulting unsteady pyramid, and then said, “I’ll call those within the fortress together and tell them tonight. Even the servants here are in the army—new enlistees and those on punishment—and there’s not much chance for anyone to be alone long. Tomorrow, I’ll send wider messages. Among other things.”
“Only tell me,” said Amris, “how I may best be of service.”
“Right now, you can both go get yourselves fed, watered, and brushed down,” said Hallis, who drank with Isen in his off-hours. “Even if you want to be present for the bad news, it’ll take at least an hour to get us assembled. General—”
“Forgive me the interruption, Commander, but just now I hold no rank. Make it Amris, I beg you.”
“Amris,” Hallis continued, after a second of hesitation. “I’ll put you in with Olvir, our other visitor. He’s the knight I mentioned. Sentinel, you’re where you’ve always been.”
“So to speak,” said Darya.
Chapter 26
“Which hell did they scrape you out of?” asked Emeth. She’d turned her head and cracked her eyelids when Darya walked in, but she didn’t make any motion to get off her bed or even sit up. Her dark hair flowed loose over her folded arms, and her bare feet, crossed at the ankles, sent slow trails of smoke up into the air.
“I don’t look that bad.”
“Maybe not for someone who’s been dead a week. Have you? Should I guard my neck?”
Darya shucked off her boots with a sigh of relief and started on her armor. “If your blood’s as sour as you are, you’re safe from any undead walking.”
“You hurt me, moss-head. You really do. Want a hand?”
“Nah, I’m half done already. As the soldier said to the dancing girl.” The innuendo came without thinking, as much instinct around her friend as the proper lunge and strike were when facing an enemy. Darya dropped the torn and filthy leather on the floor and wrenched her tunic over her head.
Emeth opened her eyes all the way, gaze sharpening when she saw Darya’s bandaged chest. “A little near the important bits, isn’t that?”
“Stop staring at my breasts, you lecher. It’s not bad.”
“Only you could say that after getting clawed by a cockatrice.”
“Wasn’t a cockatrice.” Darya kept her voice neutral as she undid her trousers and was glad of the excuse to bend her head, so that her face didn’t show. “We ran into twistedmen on the way back. Couple of new and unpleasant scouts too.”
“And you can’t tell me more, right?” Emeth said after a short pause.
“Right.”
“‘We’ means that living statue Katrine saw you with, or have you picked up a troop of entertainers on the road?”
“Just him.” Darya rubbed her eyes. “Where is Kat, anyhow?”
“At the bathing pool, where you should go,” said Emeth. Swift as a leaping flame, she sat up, grabbed a frayed tan robe from among the bedclothes, and tossed it to Darya. “Probably either out or half a raisin by now.”
Darya laughed. “Good thing for her that you’ve always liked fruit,” she said and began to pull the robe on, with a lighter heart than she’d brought into the room. Even with doom hanging over her head—all their heads—it was good to be back among her people.
* * *
A page with a recently shorn head and ill-fitting green tunic showed Amris down the hal
l. From the very first, they kept darting curious glances at him, and the questions began after no more than a minute. “Where are you from, my lord?”
“I was born in Silane.”
“But you met the Sentinel around here?”
“A few days’ walk to the north, yes.”
The child paused, then headed down another track. “It was you two who brought those horses in, wasn’t it? Not horses, really. Were they yours?”
“Not originally,” said Amris, “but now they belong to your commander, for all the good he’ll likely have of the poor brutes.”
“Poor!” The page blinked up at him. “Ugly, they say, and mean too.”
“So they’ve been made to be, broken and bred to it, and without the wit that lets men change themselves.”
The page fell silent to absorb that information, to Amris’s relief. Trying to squash the curiosity of youth wasn’t to his taste, yet he had no wish to start more rumors before Hallis could break the news—nor, in truth, did he have any desire to let the page know what was approaching. Their voice and build suggested a girl no more than fifteen, or a lad a poorly grown twelve at most; there’d been drummers and squires as young in Amris’s commands, but he hadn’t missed the sight of them.
Gods willing, Hallis would send the pages off with the refugees the next morning. If not, Amris said to himself, he’d see to it, despite his oath not to interfere with the other man’s authority. The soldiers could manage their own chores for a while, and what would come was no training the young needed.
They stopped at the end of the hall, by a narrow arched window that let in a pale shaft of moonlight. The page knocked at the wooden door in front of them.
“Please enter,” said a cheerful voice from inside.
It proved to belong to a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark-red hair and pale skin. He’d been sitting on one of the narrow beds and taking off his boots, but he stood and bowed when the door opened, pressing the heel of one hand to his heart. It should have appeared ridiculous coming from a man with only one boot on, and the other dangling from his free hand, but the grave courtesy in his face tempered any urge Amris might have had to laugh.
Tinival’s knighthood still trained its members well, it seemed, even after a hundred years.
“You must be Sir Olvir,” he said, returning the bow. “Amris is my name, and I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. The commander tells me we’ll be sharing a room.”
“The pleasure’s mine,” said Olvir. He had a wide smile and big, dark-brown eyes. Amris had been a farm boy, once, but this young man looked fresh out of the fields. “Pip, does Commander Hallis want me?”
“No, sir,” said the page. “I’m just the delivery. I’ll drop off fresh clothing for you in two shakes, sir,” they said to Amris. “Robes and towels are in the chest at the foot of the bed, and the bathing pools are in the basement. Dinner’s over, but there’s plenty left, and we’ll send that up too.”
“Can I trouble you to add fresh bandages to that load?” Amris asked. “And calendula ointment, if you have any.”
“Jars and jars, for after training. But if you’re wounded, we’ve a Mourner too.”
Amris shook his head. “Only scratches. Thank you.”
“Oh. Yes, sir.” Pip bowed and left, closing the door behind them. They didn’t sigh, but they were also too young to conceal an expression of distinct disappointment.
“She had frighteningly high hopes,” said Olvir.
“Her age was ever one for blood and gore, if she’s as young as she looks,” Amris said, chuckling as he thought of his younger brothers. “Wounds gained in high adventure are better still.”
Olvir smiled briefly. “I haven’t known many children. But she’s asked me enough questions along the same lines. Can I help you get settled?” He’d pulled the second boot off while Amris and Pip had talked.
“A hand with the buckles would be most welcome,” said Amris. “As would directions to the armorer, once I’ve mended myself a touch.”
“I won’t ask children’s questions, but it does look like you’ve been through the wars.”
“Truer than you know, or than I can explain just now.” He took off his armor with Olvir’s help, pushing through the urge to simply throw it on the floor and be free of the weight, and piled it neatly by the foot of the free bed. “Most recently, Darya and I fought twistedmen—three, and their mount.”
“Darya—oh, the Sentinel.” Olvir sat back down. “I haven’t fought any myself, but I’ve heard stories of twistedmen. They’re always nasty foes.”
“That part of the stories, at least, is true.” The robe was where Pip had said it would be. Amris disrobed and folded his clothes neatly, though he suspected Hallis or the fort’s servants might recommend burning them. A wash in the river couldn’t get rid of blood completely, particularly not that of twistedmen, and then there was the other grime of three days’ hard journey and rough sleeping.
While Amris undressed, Olvir politely kept his gaze averted, but when he did look back, he focused on the bandage near Amris’s knee. “More than a scratch, I think.”
“Somewhat more, perhaps,” he said, “but I want to see how it fares before I ask the Mourner to use his strength.”
The powers of the gods resembled the magic that Gerant now used: they themselves had few limits, but they channeled their might through their mortal servants, who could only take so much of such use. Under ordinary circumstances, it would take little effort for a Mourner to mend a simple leg wound, but Amris thought of the approaching army, and couldn’t bring himself to spend even that slight amount of force carelessly.
Olvir lifted his gaze from Amris’s leg to his face. His brown eyes were calm, level, but keen, and his young face was somber. “I guess that’s part of what you can’t explain just now.”
There was no accusation in it, barely even a question. When Amris nodded, Olvir’s jaw tightened, but he pressed the point no further. He sat back on his bed, looked at the sword hung on a rack beside Amris’s and the armor on a nearby stand, then at the small window at the end of the room. “How soon will more word come?” he asked.
“Your commander will give it to you tonight,” Amris replied. “I cannot in good conscience speak before he does.”
“Of course,” said Olvir, understanding military formality as only Tinival’s servants could. “You’d better go and bathe, then, and see how the wound’s healing. I’ll make sure Pip leaves the supplies on your bed.”
“Thank you,” said Amris. “And I’m glad to make your acquaintance.” He meant it—he liked the other man already—but when he left the room, he was also relieved to be out from under the scrutiny of those mild brown eyes.
* * *
As Emeth had said, Katrine was in the bathing rooms. Wet-haired, she lounged on the edge of the pool, with her feet dangling in the water. Beside her sat another woman: short, with bronze-gold hair and an ample bosom. For a moment, Darya wasn’t sure whether she was a Sentinel or one of the keep’s other soldiers. Then she shifted her weight, the shadows and steam fell away from her, and Darya saw the stripes of copper running like seams up her arms and legs.
“Branwyn,” said Katrine, “this is Darya. She’s been wandering around in the forest. Darya, Branwyn. The Adeptas sent her up here to cover for me at night.”
“Still glowing?” Darya asked.
Katrine gave her breasts an exasperated glance. “Less, but yes. I’ve got no complaint about them otherwise, but they mean I’m no damned good at stealth. I can name my fee if I let a fleshcrafter or two ogle them, though. It seems they’ve never done this sort of work on a Sentinel before, and there’s a, ah, fascinating pattern of magical interaction.”
“At least they’re fascinating.” Darya shrugged off her robe and stepped into the pool, groaning in a mixture of pleasure from her sore muscles and pain from the
various cuts, major and minor, lacing her body. “Nobody’s ever complimented mine in words of more than one syllable.”
“Seduce more mages,” Branwyn suggested, with a slow smile and a husky voice.
“I have magical theory enough from my sword, thank you. Though he doesn’t talk about my tits.” Darya winced as she thought of Gerant, and then of Amris, but she was reasonably sure she passed it off as a reaction to the water.
When Katrine handed over the soap, Darya scrubbed vigorously, feeling the dirt of her sojourn practically peel away in strips. The cut on her chest was almost healed, with no redness and not much pain when she prodded it experimentally. Everything else was just scratches, and some truly spectacular bruises on her back, according to Katrine. “It certainly looks like you weren’t bored.”
“Ruins aren’t the best place to run around. Even for me.”
“Which ruins?” Katrine asked.
“Klaishil.”
“Truly?” The other woman’s eyes widened. “I wish I’d gone. What was there?”
The handsome warrior my sword-spirit was in love with. The end of the world. The usual.
Hysterics would spread the word too much. The Sentinels were discreet, but there were limits. Besides, one never knew how sound carried.
“You’d be amazed,” said Darya, and sank down under the water.
* * *
The bathing pools at Oakford were underground, and the light on the staircase and the passage beyond was dimmer than it had been in the servants’ passage. Too weary to trust his feet or his reflexes, Amris made his way carefully, trailing his left hand along the wall as a guide.
Still, Darya seemed to come from nowhere. A door opened and she slipped out into the hallway, wet hair hanging down her back, skin radiant where her slim arms and legs emerged from a short, sleeveless robe of the sort Amris himself wore. Her mouth opened in surprise when she spotted him, letting out a surprised “Oh!”
The sound Amris made was similar, but he thought it was further from any precise word. He cleared his throat and remembered that he was a rational man with a vocabulary. “We had the same thought, so it seems.”
The Stormbringer Page 15