by Matthew Ward
Calenne lurched into a hunched sitting position. A new, violent throb made itself known at the base of her skull. At least there was no sign of Haldrane and his men – no living sign. Likely they’d taken her for dead and lost interest. Hissing away a whimper, she breathed in the chill, damp air and took stock.
A wisp of pale light shone high above. Thirty feet, at least. More. Too high to climb even without a broken wrist, given the smooth black stone that lined the collapsed passageway.
Even without that tormenting light, it wouldn’t have been completely dark. There was a strange, luminescent quality to the black stone. No, that wasn’t right. Somehow, it contrived to be darker than everything else. As if it drank in the shadow, rather than emitted light.
Calenne made out an exit a short distance behind her. If there’d once been another, the collapse that had shattered the ceiling had swallowed it up. A trickle of water running down the walls and vanishing between cracks in the stone proclaimed the stream as not entirely blameless.
But one exit was enough – or so Calenne hoped. She had to be in Skazit Maze – Konor Belenzo’s old warren of tunnels from the days of a much older struggle. The tunnels ran for miles – or so rumour said – which meant there were other exits, just waiting to be found. At least one passage was rumoured to come up in Eskavord – inside the churchyard no less.
“I’m not trapped,” she said firmly. Hearing the words helped. She almost believed them.
Rising to her knees, she unbuckled her breastplate and let it fall. Achieving it one-handed drove Calenne almost to distraction. She forged on through the pain, and greaves and vambraces followed. The dead Hadari’s dagger-sheath made an acceptable splint for her broken wrist. The belt and strips torn from his cloak served as adequate bindings. By the time she was done, she was sheeted in sweat.
But she was alive and she could walk. It would do.
Tucking the Hadari dagger into her belt, Calenne inched her way into the darkness.
Forty-One
“Useless, deadweight southwealder. Beats me how a stick like you can be so damned heavy.”
The bitter mumble pierced thick, black clouds. A tug on Revekah’s collar shot a spike of pain through her shoulder – her bound shoulder. It jarred her the rest of the way to wakefulness. Undergrowth tore at her arms and legs.
A birch tree lurched past. She grabbed for it and twisted against the hand at her collar. A guttural curse sounded. The weight on her collar vanished, and Revekah rolled free. Hand closing on a fallen branch, she rolled to her feet and swung.
She froze mid-blow. “Kurkas?”
He sank against the nearest tree and glanced furtively about. “Not so loud. This forest’s swarming with icularis.”
“Icularis?” She couldn’t place the word.
“Saran’s emissaries. Not the kind of folks you want to be beholden to.”
She let the branch fall. “Weren’t you at Blackridge?”
His expression soured. “Blackridge is gone. Bunch of the lads and lasses made it back to the Kevor redoubt. Not enough.”
“But not you?”
“Got cut off, didn’t I? Times like that, you find whatever hidey-hole presents itself.” He rubbed a filthy brow. “Shadowthorns were so intent on the pursuit that I slipped away. Thought I’d stand a better chance in here. Tripped – and I mean tripped – over you not long after. Couldn’t exactly leave you there for the Hadari, now could I?”
Revekah grunted. She’d heard variations on Kurkas’ tale over the years, most often from deserters justifying cowardice. Nonetheless, she couldn’t imagine the one-armed northwealder giving up so easily. If easily was the word. His black uniform was torn and bloodied. And deserters weren’t known for their kindnesses.
And did it matter if Kurkas had fled? She’d fled.
Belatedly, she realised how quiet it was. If battle still raged, it did so a long way off. The sun, barely visible through the forest canopy, was lower than she’d expected. Much lower. She’d been out for hours.
“How bad is it?”
Kurkas’ lip curled, and his eye fell. “Bad. Lord Akadra, Lady Trelan? Reckon they’re dead or taken.”
Revekah hung her head, her breath stolen by the feeling of utter failure.
“Last I saw, there was still fighting off to the north,” he said. “The redoubts are holding, but they’ll crumble as soon as Saran sends in his Immortals. Might not even do that. Bugger’s got catapults. No sense wasting lives to prove a point.”
“Why not?” asked Revekah. “We did.”
“Fortunes of war.” Kurkas held up the remnant of his left arm. “Some you win, others you lose.”
She glared at him. “Easy for you to say. You’d nothing at stake.”
“Yeah, you keep saying that if it makes you feel better. I lost a lot of lads and lasses back at Blackridge. And Lord Akadra? I’d have died for him. Still might, before I’m done.”
With those words, Revekah was back in the rain of Zanya as the silver swan broke apart Katya Trelan’s dreams. “Why?”
He shrugged. “Because he’d do the same for me. The best kind of loyalty goes both ways. You used to be a soldier. You should know that.”
Used to be? The gall of the man. “I want to see for myself.”
“I don’t advise that.”
“Did I ask for advice?”
“All part of the service. Physician, beast of burden, sage counsel . . .”
“Physician? For all I know, my arm’ll rot and drop off!”
“At which point you’ll only owe me an eye, won’t you?” Kurkas growled. “Ungrateful besom. Would it kill you to offer a word of thanks?”
She glowered at him. “Thank you. Better?”
To Revekah’s surprise, he cracked a smile. “Much. You’ll want this.”
He fumbled with his sword belt. One of two, overlaid so close that Revekah had missed that detail. Tugging it free, he tossed the sword to her.
“If you’re determined to lurch back into the fire, might as well do it armed.”
Revekah stared at him, suspicious once more. “You don’t have to come.”
“You’re right, but I’d planned on heading back once I’d stashed your useless lump somewhere safe.” He grinned infuriatingly. “Together again, eh?”
Calenne couldn’t be sure she wasn’t wandering in circles. The chambers would have looked similar even with a firestone lantern to hand. With only the strange, anti-luminescence to guide her, she’d no chance. But she pressed on, striving to ignore a wrist that throbbed with every step, and a throat burning from lack of water.
Without the certainty that attempting to retrace her footsteps would leave her more lost than ever, she’d have turned back. But it wasn’t that alone.
There was something ahead, urging her on. The same feeling she’d had about the statue. Familiar. Welcoming.
More likely, she was going mad.
“Should have tried the climb,” she muttered. “Now you’ll die down here, and no one will ever know.”
She regretted the words at once. Bad enough to suspect the fate without hearing it spoken.
“No,” she said firmly. “Trelans are stubborn, remember? And you’re stubborn enough for two or three. Otherwise you’d not be here, would you?”
“No,” Calenne replied to herself. “Likely I’d be dead twice over.”
She growled back a despairing sigh. “And now I’m talking to myself. Nothing good ever comes of that.”
Feeling more alone than ever, she walked on, never glimpsing light.
Melanna emerged from the sanctum tent into the blinding sun. Her head throbbed. Her cheek stung from the balm with which Sera had treated her wounds. Her circlet was gone, mangled by the Thrakkian’s axe-blow. Her broken banner had been lost in the confusion of the knights’ charge. But she could yet hold a sword, and so was content . . . in one way, at least.
Far to the west, the owl-banner flew on a field empty of conflict. Strife persisted on the heigh
ts, but the only Tressian banners were those above the distant redoubts.
Muffled footsteps drew close. Shadow eclipsed the sun. Melanna found herself staring up at her father.
She knelt. “Forgive me.”
“For what?” he rumbled.
“I failed you. I disobeyed. You ordered me to take the heights, and instead . . .”
He stooped and took her fingers in one massive hand. “And instead you saved my life. It was a brave, foolish and noble gesture. My gratitude cannot be measured. Just as my fear at the cost knew no end, Ashanal.”
So saying, he raised her up and – to Melanna’s surprise – drew her into an embrace. The Immortals of his guard hung back, silent and disapproving. She suspected her father’s rare affection appalled them as much as she appalled them. Only Hal Drannic had understood, and he was dead – cut down by the man-of-shadow.
“I’m not Ashanal,” she breathed. “I am Saranal, and Saranal alone.” He drew back. “What do you mean?”
She could lie. She could tell him that being his daughter meant more than any divine tie. He’d believe it, especially in that moment. But she had to tell someone. “The goddess rejected my desire for war. Her steward gifted me the sword.”
He nodded, his expression unreadable. “Emperors rule despite the will of the gods, not because of it. I’ve no doubt that you will one day do the same.”
A sliver of guilt fell away. Not quite enough, but close. “Thank you, Father.”
“Emperor, soon enough.” With a sudden bark of laughter, he swept his hand across the battlefield. “They are broken! Defeated! This day, the house of Saran has done something not seen for centuries! We’ve humbled the bloodless Tressians on their own territory. Let the Golden Court deny me my father’s throne now.”
“Then it is done?”
He waved a dismissive hand. “All but. Devren holds the south. Aedrun will scour the slopes. As for their patchwork fortresses? We’ll crack them apart with catapults and take the survivors by spear. Are you hale enough to join me, daughter? It will be half the victory without you.”
Melanna squeezed her sword and felt her strength return. Her head still throbbed. Her cheek still stung. Neither mattered. Not now.
“Of course, my emperor.” She dipped head and knee in formal curtsey.
Her father bellowed with laughter. “Now you’re prepared to behave as a woman should? Had I known a little bloodletting was all it took, I’d have indulged . . .”
He broke off at the blare of a distant horn. Not a Hadari horn. It was brighter, brassier – a triplet of low notes capped by a half-octave leap. Melanna had heard it many times during her weeks in the Southshires. The signal call that roused wolf’s-heads to attack.
“It’s Crovan,” she said tightly. “The Wolf King’s betrayed us.”
Josiri ran full-tilt down the slope, careless of the treacherous ground. One misplaced boot ran the risk of injury or indignity, but he let the wild notes of the horn drive him on.
Maiden’s Hollow emptied behind him. Wolf-cloaks, bandits; the downtrodden and the dispossessed. They screamed like madmen, drowning out fear and doubt. This wasn’t war as Josiri had known it at Zanya – the serried ranks and the banners streaming high. The wolf’s-heads formed no line and bore no heraldry. They were a mob, driven by the guilt of inaction, betrayal and hesitation. Like Josiri, they came for redemption or the Raven’s embrace.
The northern edge of the Hadari line shrank inwards. Warchiefs bellowed orders. Strung out across the hillside in a battle for gulley and outcrop, they’d no chance to reform. Josiri had just enough time to worry about the balance of the numbers before and behind. Then the first shield was before him, and such concerns lay in the past.
Josiri leapt the streambed. His shoulder struck a shield and drove it aside. His sword-thrust skirted the heavy wooden rim and bit into flesh. The Hadari fell, and Josiri ran on.
Panting, he hacked down another. The first wolf-cloaks overtook him, driving deep into the disorganised foe. One died without landing a blow, ribs crushed by a war hammer’s punishing strike. One of Gavamor’s simarka pounced past Josiri’s right shoulder and bore the hammer-wielder to the ground.
Josiri hefted his sword high. “On! On! Keep them off-balance!”
That was the trick. The only hope the wolf’s-heads had. Hammer at the Hadari, keep them off-kilter. Deny them time to react. If the Hadari formed up, much less brought their numbers to bear . . .
Josiri swung at a shield bearing the likeness of a snarling wildcat. Hide tore. Wood splintered. He parried a spear and rammed his heel against the shield-boss. His opponent staggered back and lost his balance on the rocks.
Josiri ran on, leaving the man’s fate to those who came behind.
“On!” he shouted, though he doubted anyone heard. “On!”
The first serious attempt at a shield wall came as the gorse of the upper slopes gave way to grass. A dozen wolf’s-heads died on its spears before a pride of Gavamor’s simarka ripped it apart. The next came on the steep banks of a stream. Josiri lost most of a sleeve in that clash, and damn near an eye. But a volley of arrows hissed out of the western rock, and the Hadari melted away.
Shivering with exertion, Josiri halted for breath. Already, the madness of battle was slipping away. Memory gladly regaled him with every near-miss, every mistake and every botched strike. Harbingers of a death not yet earned.
He growled and shook the recollections away. He was alive. The details were of no account.
A woman in a high-necked naval jacket picked her way through the rocks. She held a bloodied cutlass. Her battered tricorne couldn’t hide the soiled bandage about her head.
“Is that what passes for armour among the nobility?” she asked.
Her appearance struck a chord in Josiri’s memory, but he couldn’t quite place the tune. Josiri stared down at his torn coat and bloodstained shirt.
“One tries to stay abreast of fashion,” he said evenly. “I seem to have failed.”
She offered a stiff bow. “Captain Kalla Masnar. I’m rationing out this particular barrel of disaster. At least I was. Reckon that’s you now, your grace.”
At last, Josiri recognised her. The reeve of Ardva. She’d been at Branghall for last year’s Ascension. Riotously drunk.
“What about Akadra? My sister?”
Masnar winced and shook her head. “You can see everything I can.”
Indeed Josiri could, and he liked little of what he saw. Further down the slope, the Hadari were in full retreat, but beyond that? Saran’s owl-banner was moving, the blaze of gold growing brighter as other war bands formed around it.
“We were doing fine until those witches showed up,” said Masnar. “Our constructs just . . . shut down. I don’t know who you’ve got controlling your simarka, but you’d best warn them.”
“I’ll make sure he knows.”
Josiri glanced back up the hill to where Gavamor and Anastacia made a careful descent. Gavamor because of his age, and Anastacia because, in her words, I don’t run.
A crowd gathered at Masnar’s back – one every bit as motley as his own. Tail-coated marines. Hooded wolf’s-heads. Labourers with mattocks, billhooks and even the odd shovel. All of them, like her, looking to him for leadership.
Not for the first time, Josiri felt like a fraud. But what else could he do? Calenne was down there. And if he didn’t fight now, there wouldn’t be a Southshires much longer. He’d have failed everyone.
Masnar offered the wry smile of a woman glad to pass her problems elsewhere. “Waiting on your orders, your grace.”
“Form up,” he said. “This isn’t over.”
Kurkas squatted beside the rotten birch and peered out through the ferns. “Well, that’s a sight.”
The distant northern heights were alive with running battles. The mish-mash of blues, greys and murky browns were dull against golden armour and emerald robes, but they outnumbered the beleaguered shadowthorns, and they were winning. For the fir
st time since his mad scramble from Blackridge, Kurkas felt a rush of grim joy.
Halvor followed his gaze. “Josiri. He must have talked Crovan round.”
She looked a decade younger than when he’d found her. Nothing like a little hope to smooth away the years. “The duke? Had him down for a bottle-dweller.”
“Mind your tongue!” She winced an apology. “We all lose our way. He’s a good lad.”
Kurkas stifled a smile. They were all children to Revekah Halvor. Hard to imagine one of the northern nobility sticking their necks out for their beliefs as she had, and at her age. Might be she’d more in common with Lord Akadra than she reckoned.
He pointed north-east, to the owl-banner that claimed dominance of the battlefield’s centre. Remnants of the cataphracts and a sole grunda chariot flanked the marching ranks of Kai Saran’s Immortals. “Dead lad, if he’s not careful.”
“Give Josiri some credit. Better yet, we’ll give him some reinforcement. The redoubts are intact. We can scrounge up a couple of hundred . . .”
A rustle of leaves drew Kurkas’ attention. He stared past Revekah, back into the forest. “Not going to happen.”
“Fine,” snapped Halvor. “I’ll go alone.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Black-cloaked icularis ghosted through the trees towards them. Kurkas drew his sword.
“Calenne.”
The voice jarred her from nightmares to the suffocating un-light of Skazit Maze. If there was any longer a difference. Dizziness swirled the gloom. She hadn’t meant to sleep. A moment’s rest. Nothing more.
“Calenne.”
The voice came again. This time loud enough that Calenne knew it to be real. Not some figment of forgotten dreams. She scrambled to her feet and pressed her back against the cold stone.
“Who’s there? Where are you?”
Wings fluttered past her head, invisible in the darkness.
“I’m here.”
Calenne turned a giddying circle and found herself face to face with a tall, tatter-coated man wearing a feathered domino mask. She backed away, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling.