Gairen stood up to get the bottle of brandy from the cupboard. For the first time since he’d come up with his plan of finding one of Jonim’s children, he was no longer certain about what he should do. It was early in the day for it, but he needed a drink. At least it would help with the headache.
When the dark ones attacked, the Gods of Light opened themselves wide, embracing their timeless enemies instead of defending themselves. They wrapped their essence around their counterparts, binding and holding them fast. Then, as one, they gave up their immortality and power, dragging the profane dark ones with them down to the worlds of man.
While most of their power and memories were lost, they retained enough knowledge to continue their struggle and enough strength to reshape the worlds upon which they now lived.
Only a single pair remained in the heavens, Sollus and Faen, each the weakest of their kind.
—Edyin’s Complete Chronicle of the Fallen
Chapter 11
The Esharii attacked the outpost in the deep of night, long after the moon fell beyond the horizon and well before it would rise again for its second journey among the stars. They didn’t charge the damaged front gate Harol’s men reinforced. They didn’t come in through the small, well-lit rear gate either, not at first, and they didn’t climb the walls in darkness between the sentry’s rounds or ride in hidden under the hay of a wagon as the storymen romanticize it. Instead, they came in on their hands and knees through the shit and piss of the privy.
Four of the most experienced tribesmen, led by the scarred warrior, Ky’lem, crawled through the foul covered trench that would lead them to a drainage outlet under the wall. The stench was abhorrent, especially after taking the water from the lake of life that heightened the tribesmen’s senses and abilities. Touching the water of the Najalii was forbidden to all but the okulu’tan, with one exception. Esharii warriors carried a paste made with the water and plants of the lake. It made the warriors stronger and faster, almost the equal of the gray demons when it was fresh. The paste they’d consumed this night was many days old, but still potent enough to make them more than a match for the Thaens at the outpost. For the gray demons, they would need to work together.
To Ky’lem, this was cause for concern. Pai’le was like a brother to him—they’d both been named spears of the tribe on the same day and fought side by side against man and beast—but leadership had given the big tribesman a false pride Ky’lem could not break through. In past days, there had been a balance between Pai’le’s bullheadedness and Ky’lem’s thoughtfulness that had made them stronger together than apart. Since being named warleader of this raid, however, Pai’le refused to listen, even when given sound advice. He kept splitting the warband up when the best way to kill the gray demons was to overwhelm them with numbers. Fighting them piecemeal was a quick way to reach the great beyond, and while Ky’lem did not fear death, he had no desire to hasten the day of his journey.
My thoughts are too kind because we are like brothers. Pai’le was willfully leading with his heart instead of his head, acting on impulse and desire instead of strategy and sound thinking. He was far too worried about displaying his honor and prowess to the young spears, setting an example that would get them killed. It was maddening, but all Ky’lem could do was obey. At least Pai’le had listened this time and let Ky’lem lead the attack through the privy. As revolting as the trench was, Ky’lem’s honor gave him no choice but to volunteer. He would never send men to do what he would not, and this way he could ensure it succeeded without wasting lives.
He slid forward and his hand sunk into the slime of human waste. One day I will fill his blankets with screet shit as payment for this night.
He forced himself to calm down, to hold his frustration in check. Emotion led to the rash mistakes he abhorred. Besides, even if Pai’le was acting like a man kicked in the head by a horse, it was better to fight under the man’s command than miss the opportunity to gain honor and status in the tribe. There’d been few raids into the northern lands over the last ten years, and he would not allow Pai’le to fight while he sat at home with his wives in his longhut. Ky’lem would match him honor for honor, death for death. If Pai’le were ever elevated to the council, Ky’lem would need to remain right beside him for balance. He wanted to kill the oath-breaking gray demons as much as anyone, but he wanted to unite the tribes and wipe them out forever, not recklessly waste lives to kill only a few.
Then there was the okulu’tan, the true leader of this warband. The old spirit-walker’s magic was strong, and he’d pulled the council’s strings like a puppeteer, offering them the secret of soulfire to get their support for the raid. The council had lapped up his words like starving ga’ginga pups at a bowl of milk. The council didn’t completely trust the okulu’tan—no one who truly valued his soul trusted a spirit-walker—but the secret to soulfire was far too much to ignore.
In truth, it wasn’t just his honor and matching Pai’le’s deeds that had Ky’lem crawling through the filth. Few okulu’tan joined the raids in the north like they had during his father’s time, and a true spirit-walker, one who’d walked the paths of all life, hadn’t been over the mountains in more than a generation. Ky’lem hadn’t wanted to miss the chance of earning favor with the old one. To unite the tribes, he would need a powerful okulu’tan behind him.
Now one had offered him the chance, but at a price he didn’t know if he was willing to pay—or if he could even trust the deal the okulu’tan had offered after the others left the tent. A spirit-walker’s motives were never clear, and while they spoke truth, it was always their own version.
Ky’lem mopped sweat from his forehead with the back of his forearm, careful not to spread the filth of the trench onto his face or smear the stripes of his green-and-black face paint. I need to worry about the offer later. Worrying about tomorrow’s fight in the heat of battle was another way to hasten the journey to the great beyond.
He resumed his slow, blind crawl through the muck and piss. Ahead of him, large grubs and beetles controlled by the spirit-walker had bored into the wood and packed earth that held the metal grate under the wall and barred access to the outpost. It broke away easily when he reached it, and his warriors climbed with determined sureness through the tunnel that led to the cesspit below the privy. Here the smell was worse, and breathing was difficult. He was proud that none of his warriors gave them away by retching or turning their stomachs out before they climbed up through one of the small chutes and into the outpost from below a waste hole.
Faint light filtered into the privy from a window. Ky’lem motioned three of the tribesmen up toward the top of the wall and the fourth toward the small rear gate. The warriors acknowledged the command with curt nods, and five Ti’yak longknives slid quietly from their sheaths. The reverse curve of the knives made shadows like fangs on the wall. Their swords had been left behind in favor of the longknives and the clay-encased balls of soulfire they carried. Ky’lem had tested the self-igniting weapons the spirit-walker offered before coming over the mountains, and they’d worked well on the gates and walls of the outpost two days earlier. The pig fat, pitch, and other mysterious ingredients burned so hot that water was little use putting out the flames. With it, the Ti’yak would gain a huge advantage over the other tribes.
His part in this raid was simple. Kill the sentries, open the rear gate, and fire the barracks, then help capture the children. Pai’le and the others were beyond the tree line, waiting for the sentries to be cleared and the rear gate to open. Ky’lem and his men would need to move fast once they left the privy. Their smell alone might alert the Thaens, although he doubted it. The ones who served the gray demons were little more than children playing with sharpened sticks when it came to fighting.
Ky’lem signed the command to move, and the five tribesmen fanned out toward their targets.
The first to die was a young Thaen Regular who stood no more than a pace fro
m a ladder near the rear gate. He was bored, his eyes half closed, fighting sleep. He leaned on his spear and stared off at nothing. The Thaen had a quick moment to lift his head and sniff at the air questioningly before a hand clamped over his mouth. Ky’lem drove his knife into the man’s neck until the tip protruded from the opposite side. The Thaen’s eyes bulged, but he could make no sound.
Pulling back on the jaw, Ky’lem pushed outward with the knife. With his enhanced strength, the blade cut through cartilage, muscle, and tendons with ease, severing everything forward of the spine. Blood sprayed into the night.
Ky’lem took no pleasure in killing a warrior who was so weak, but he didn’t disdain it either. Like his frustration, he kept the rest of his emotions in check, saving his real fury for the gray demons.
He eased the body to the ground. Two of his tribesmen were already scrambling up the ladder while another removed the heavy crossbeams on the small gate. Soon he could let his anger at Pai’le and his hatred of the gray demons go, and if Sollus were with him, his knife would taste the blood of the true enemy, the servants of the dark one—unless, of course, Pai’le got them all killed first.
The small rear gate swung open with only the slightest creak. With luck, the whole of the warband would be inside the walls before an alarm sounded. Ky’lem and the warrior who’d opened the gate both pulled balls of soulfire from their waist and ran for the barracks.
The dying soldier on the ground’s last vision was of Ky’lem’s striped and scarred face, and his last thought was that the very apparition of death had arrived at the outpost to claim them all.
* * *
—
Gairen opened his eyes and listened. He heard nothing, but something was wrong—he could feel it. Survival as a scout depended on instincts, and he hadn’t survived this long by ignoring his. He leaped up from his sleeping mat and grabbed both the blades that lay next to him. The sheaths made muted thumps as they fell to the floor. The sword linked to Jonim’s boy rattled on the floor when he dropped it an instant later. “Faen’s balls,” he cursed. He shook his hand, trying to get the feeling back. He’d drawn both swords out of habit, forgetting that the second blade was no longer his to control.
Forgetting the weapon on the floor, he closed his eyes and pulled from the reservoir of energy stored in the crystal of the sword that remained to him. The soft orange glow of life should have surrounded him. Walls and lifeless objects should have melted into translucent glass. The guards who walked the walls and the horizontal forms of men sleeping should have radiated around him. Instead, a dark haze he could not penetrate blanketed his inner sight. He saw nothing—which meant something was very wrong. The Esharii were here, and with them, the okulu’tan and his magic.
Blind panic would solve nothing, so he took the time to don his shirt and boots before stepping warily out of the small building where he slept. Even without his inner sight, his vision should have been good enough to pick out the sentries who manned the walls. Their posts were empty—another bad sign. The lights from the oil pots scattered around the outpost revealed no movement, but if the sentries were missing, then the Esharii were already inside the walls. He needed to alert the regulars before it was too late.
Opening his link to the crystal wider, he drew in power and dashed toward the barracks, hoping to get there before there was an alarm. As a scout, he’d returned with news of an impending attack more than once. A hundred men awakened in the middle of the night by an attack created a lot of confusion. It would be better if he were there to get them organized first.
He rounded the last building in time to see two objects hurtling through the air toward the barracks. They hit the wooden building and exploded, splattering orange flames that clung to the door and wall. The whoosh of the fire filled the silence of the night as the flames gained air. Gairen could feel the wave of heat. Whatever had been thrown burned unnaturally hot. So much for containing the chaos.
There was another crash, and flames shot up from the opposite side of the barracks, exactly where the second door was located. He glimpsed an Esharii running between the buildings but resisted the urge to pursue. He needed to get the regulars moving.
The door to the barracks swung open, but the men would not be using it. The fire was already at eye level and far too hot to pass. Shutters on the first floor banged open, followed by two more on the second floor. Men and women began tumbling out through the narrow windows. He heard another crash in the distance.
Gairen grabbed the first man out. “The Esharii are inside the walls. Get the men armed and organized. Contain the fire, secure the gates, and protect the warehouse. Get men on the walls with bows if you can.” If they didn’t hurry, there’d be nothing left of the outpost by dawn but ash and cinders.
The soldier held his empty hands up in frustration. Most of the regulars coming out the windows were unarmed and half dressed. The man turned back to the window and yelled at his comrades to get weapons and armor before fleeing. Flames already licked the sky above the second-story roof.
Word of the attack spread, and men began to move with a purpose instead of blindly fleeing.
That was all Gairen needed to accomplish. He charged off in the direction the tribesmen had run. Even though he’d told the men to guard the warehouse, he didn’t think the Esharii were here to simply destroy supplies. At least that wasn’t their primary target. If it were, the warehouse would have been the first building to burn. He needed a moment to think. Clearing his mind, he used the energy of the blade to slip into the mahl-shae, the mental state used for fighting.
The world around him slowed, although that was a backward way of looking at it. More accurately, his mind sped up until the world around him moved in slow motion relative to his thoughts. The state also calmed the nerves and tempered the surge of energy the body created when faced with danger. He didn’t have a lot of power left in the crystal—they drained quickly over a short time—so he wouldn’t be able to stay in it for long. A moment in the mahl-shae, however, was all he needed to organize his thoughts.
The Esharii were not burning the warehouse, and they didn’t have enough men inside the walls to pin the regulars inside the burning building. This meant that the fire would only slow the regulars down. The tribesmen had another objective, something that could be accomplished quickly. This was not an attack to destroy the outpost or weaken the keep it supplied. This was a targeted raid after something specific. The Esharii had come in by stealth and removed the sentries, but they hadn’t come directly for him. That left only one other possibility—the children. Gairen released himself from the trancelike state and ran for the building where the children slept.
* * *
—
Heart racing, Riam bolted up from sleep. Somewhere on the other side of the outpost someone had touched the sword. His mind tingled, and he had the overwhelming urge to find the weapon.
Whoever it was hadn’t touched it for long. It had to be Gairen, but why would the warden be touching the blade in the middle of the night? He lay back down, only to realize that he needed to relieve himself now that he was awake or he would never get back to sleep.
With a grunt, he reached for the new boots next to him. One of the boys from the tailor’s shop had delivered them before sundown. He felt sorry for the tailor’s boy and hadn’t spoken to him much. The boots, though, were magnificent. They were simple and unadorned, but they fit well and were even lined with soft wool. He slipped them on, marveling again at how good they felt. They were by far the most expensive things he’d ever owned.
The room around him was crowded with the sleeping forms of the other children, not to mention the small packs they’d all been given for tomorrow’s trip downriver. Riam couldn’t believe he would be traveling by boat in the morning and that he wouldn’t see Gairen again for years. It’d only been a few tendays, but Gairen was the only connection he held with his old life besides Lemual.
He pushed the thought out of his mind. I need to forget about Lemual and the past.
A board creaked loudly when he stepped on it. Loral sat up, her hair poking in all directions.
“Where are you going?” she whispered.
“To the privy.”
“I need to go, too. You can watch the door while I’m inside.” She slid into her boots and rose beside him before he could think of a reason to say no. He doubted she needed him there. No one else would be using the privy at this time of night.
When they arrived, he let her go in first.
“Disgusting!” she shouted from inside. “Someone wiped shit around the holes and on the wall. I hope we leave before anyone notices or we’ll be on a detail cleaning it up.”
Riam was more shocked at Loral’s cursing than he was at the mess she’d discovered.
Several loud crashes broke the night’s silence, as if someone were smashing crockery, followed by bright flashes.
“What was that?” Loral asked.
“I don’t know.”
She was back in the doorway, looking over Riam’s shoulder in the direction of the light. “The barracks are that way. On the other side of the mess hall,” she said.
Now that she pointed it out, Riam could see the mess hall silhouetted by the glow of the oil pots. As he watched, the light flared brighter. He began to get a bad feeling in his stomach. If Gairen had touched the sword and there was a fire inside the outpost, the two events were connected.
In the distance, a man screamed.
“Come on!” Riam grabbed Loral and pulled her toward the glow.
“Shouldn’t we go back?” she said but followed.
They rounded the mess hall to find the Thaen Regulars scrambling to form ranks.
“Get a weapon and form up. Doesn’t matter if it’s yours. The swaugs are inside the walls.” They formed rows in four groups. Some held weapons, others did not. A few strapped on leather vests or pulled on boots.
Lies of Descent Page 13