Not that he would ever forget it: a testament to the foolishness of bargaining with the Otherworld.
His rough mood gnawed at his focus like a rat. If he believed it would have made any difference, he would have let Adder continue with his original plan. With the same foolhardy wrath, Lorth considered going after Rhinne right now. But the cost of Ascarion’s demand reminded him that the forces at work on this isle cared little for the wants and needs of mortals. Lorth couldn’t abandon Laegir’s men to what he now knew the oborom priests were capable of.
Nor could he abandon Rhinne, as her gods had apparently done. He drew a shaky breath. “Ascarion. By the Destroyer herself I swear—” He cut his words short. The effort made his heart thump and his eyes sting. The only thing more foolish than bargaining with the Otherworld was cursing it.
He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. The sensation of thorns in his mind had grown so continual he didn’t notice it anymore. He let his consciousness drift down beneath the noise, to replenish his sense of it. It hovered there, working, marching, clacking blades.
Until something stomped on it.
Lorth opened his eyes as a familiar sound pierced the air, a keening wail with the edge of a scythe. Shit. He jumped up and fled before the damp, stinking gale that blasted over the plain. “Laegir!” he shouted, dropping his cloaking spell. Men fell back before him. “Where is he?” Someone pointed.
Lorth found the captain kneeling over Crow, who had been badly wounded in the abdomen. He was unconscious. Part of an arrow protruded from his shoulder. Two warriors, a commander and several of the Winterscythe’s crew had gathered around. Laegir looked up, his face haggard. “Master. Have you more of that potion?”
“I had precious little to start,” Lorth said quietly. He flared his nostrils as the smell of rotting plants wafted through the trees. “We have another problem now. I would advise—” He turned as someone barreled from the woods and plowed into him, knocking him down.
“How dare you,” Wulfgar snarled. Before Lorth recovered his wits, the prince cracked him the jaw so hard his mind went blank. For a moment. Lorth raised his arms and blocked the next punch, then grasped, rolled and twisted the warrior’s arm behind his back in a single move.
“You smell that?” he ground through his teeth next to Wulfgar’s ear. “It’s the air of another dimension. That’s what forced me to order Adder from my protection. That”—he hiked up his grip, causing the prince to growl in pain—“forced me to summon Ascarion from Void and that”—another twist—“is the fucking reason Rhinne is captive and Adder in pieces on that plain. You may be prince here but in this war I am your master whether you like it or not. Stand down or die sooner than later.”
Releasing the warrior with a slam, Lorth got up and paced, rubbing the fiery throb of pain in his jaw. “Laegir,” he rasped. The northman stood after draping a cloak over the captain’s body. Bearing the loss, the men looked up with ready expressions. Lorth pointed behind him at the battle plain. “Retreat. Order the men into these woods to hide. No matter what they see or think they see, no one move, talk, or breathe.”
They stared. “What are we hiding from?” someone asked.
“Manlike creatures. Big. They see badly, but sense movement. They are immensely strong and fast and their touch can destroy your connection to this world. I must find a way to banish them. Go.”
Laegir nodded, turned and ran for the plain. His men followed him, bellowing orders as they went.
Lorth turned; Wulfgar lowered his gaze. “What would you have me do?”
“The priests will be looking for you. Stay hidden until I return. Make sure these men understand what I’ve said.”
“And if you do not return?”
Lorth didn’t respond to that. Wulfgar would do what he had to do regardless, and they both knew it. Casting his body in shadows, the hunter moved swiftly to meet his enemies.
When he reached the edge of the woods, the northmen were already running for the shelter of the trees. A pitch-black rift towered in the smoke, absorbing the light. From it streamed scores of tall, muscular beings, shifting in and out of his vision, their movements erratic and impossible to determine. Their swamp faces were contorted with hate and, Lorth had to assume, a desire for vengeance. With them loped hideous hound-like creatures with blazing yellow eyes, webs for feet and joints bending in strange angles. Unlike their masters, the beasts didn’t vanish and reappear in the air and their vision was better; they easily overtook and tore to pieces anyone who fell behind.
Lorth ran onto the field, bow in hand. He snatched an arrow from his quiver and loosed it at one of the beasts, hitting it in the eye. It rolled over with the impact and lay still. Gathering the strength of the earth into his voice he boomed, “Kill the beasts!” He dropped another and another as some of the guardsmen turned and followed suit. “Don’t let them into the woods!”
The rest of the guardsmen fled, but the aliens began to overtake them, crumbling them to the ground or rending their limbs from nothing. Screams of terror filled the air as the rocky ground near the forest’s edge thickened with bodies.
Lorth killed as many of the alien hounds as his quiver allowed. Then he crouched behind a large boulder to think. If he didn’t find a way to change this, they would all die. He cleared his mind, then stiffened at a sound.
Hoofbeats.
He leaned around to see what was happening. His heart leapt as a company of red-cloaked men rode into the fray, swords flashing. Clad in black, the Raven of Eusiron rode forth, his steed prancing about as he reined in. He straightened his back, lifted his arms and cried out a torrent of words in the Dark Tongue, most of which Lorth had never heard. The invocation rippled over his scalp, flipped in his bowels like a fish and buckled his knees. He laughed as he stumbled to the ground and clutched at the grass, his head spinning as the wizard unstitched the fabric of the grid.
The alien horde vanished. A shocked moment passed. The ragged cries of warriors filled the air as three hundred Raptors flooded over a rise from the northeast, joined the Eusiron Guard emerging from the trees and descended upon the oborom army. Lorth got up and walked unsteadily over the outcroppings. Eaglin saw him at once and urged his horse into a lope.
“Here you are,” the Raven said with a grin. He jumped down from his horse. They embraced.
“Good to see you,” Lorth said as they parted. “How did you just do that?”
“Ah,” Eaglin said, gazing across the short distance at the turmoil of battle, a sea of red and black. “A tip from the Dark Warrior. He came to me in a dream as I rested earlier today.” As Lorth lifted his brow, Eaglin shrugged. “He owes us.”
“Let’s hope the Mistress looks fondly on it.” He paused and started walking; Eaglin took his horse and accompanied him. “Dore has Rhinne.”
“I heard. I brought you a horse. Prince Bjorn awaits us in Graylif Forest. That’s why I’m late; we helped him to wrest a town from the oborom, there.”
“Did he bring word from the Raven of Wychmouth?”
Eaglin shook his head. “Bjorn didn’t find out about this from Mimir. He learned it from the Osprey you stationed on Waleis after I sent him a message about the Mistress’ curse. Bjorn made port in Whitebeam two days ago. As far as he knew, Sedarius never arrived.”
Lorth shook his head. “I told you not to trust Sedarius.”
“I intended to test his loyalty to the Council. ’Twould appear he had better things to do.” He mounted his horse and turned towards the battle, drawing his sword. “I have a priest to find. By dawn, we’ll march on Tromblast.”
Lorth nodded. As he strode for the trees, grief hit him like a cold spot in a lake. He missed Adder already. But Laegir’s best lay dead on the battlefield, slaughtered to break the heart of a princess.
No death is mine, the Shade of Attachment reminded him.
To Kill a King
Predawn breathed upon the eastern seas as Aelfric crouched in a stunted pine thicket in sight of Tromblast K
eep. Forbidding as a tomb, the fortress towered against the sky. No force of arms had flooded from her gates in the direction of the Keepers’ disastrous landing. Perhaps the oborom knew the Keepers were destroyed. In another circumstance, Aelfric might have searched for survivors. But he had to see his mission through, now more than ever.
He got up and moved carefully over the treacherous landscape. A small pouch that had belonged to the hermit tapped against his belt. By the light of a midnight fire, Hemlock had put into it a collection of shells, some herbs and a weird bone whistle. Then he gave Aelfric instructions.
The king walks the north strand each morning at the tide’s ebb, the immortal had said in his hissing sea-foam voice. He takes these shells, leaving few of them to find. See that he finds these.
A raven fluttered onto a nearby boulder. Ignoring the creature, Aelfric crept down the rocks to the shore beneath the North Tower. He stayed on the rocks to avoid leaving footprints. The North Cave loomed before him; the sea tossed and crashed behind. Not a season had passed since the Riven God had emerged from the icy waters here. Aelfric might have thought that was a dream had he not recently been fished out of the Draumar and healed by an immortal sea creature with the name of a tree—and then seen the Mistress herself wreak legendary devastation.
Hemlock’s first request was simple enough, though not without complications. Aelfric studied the black maw of the cave, searching for movement, a different shade of black, a pale face. Seeing nothing, he rose and fled like a fox to the shelter of the rocks on the far side. There, he caught his breath and surveyed the long stretch of beach beneath the tower. High above, black windows gazed from the stone. The tide wouldn’t be out for hours yet, but he had to do this in the dark to avoid being seen by physical eyes. Hopefully the surf had receded enough.
He drew forth his pouch and emptied out the shells, small and shaped like spirals. Hefting them in his fist, he stole down to the icy surf and began pressing the shells into the sand over a wide area. When he had finished, he took the shortest path back to the shelter of the tower wall. He hugged it close, glancing dubiously at the clamoring surf. Only by the hand of sorcery or gods would Ragnvald find those shells, and not have witnessed Aelfric planting them.
When he reached the cave, Aelfric mustered his courage. Best not to dwell on this. He murmured words the queen had taught him to hide his identity to the minds of priests. Then, with a deep breath and a chill on his heart that could have frozen a pond, he entered the yawning maw. It was not guarded, which meant the priests must have put a spell on it to detect intruders. Aelfric hoped the queen’s magic would hide him. He moved quickly into the dark.
Putting shells on the beach paled before Hemlock’s second task. The king has a private apothecary, the immortal had said. It overlooks the northern seas from high in the West Tower. A priest keeps it. He goes to Stoneval Forest each day to collect the essences of trees and plants. Place these in his basket ere he returns.
Aelfric still felt the soft, damp leaves and bits of bark in his hand as Hemlock had pressed them there. Going to the West Tower was unthinkable, but he might be able to catch the priest on his way to or from the forest. Aelfric had no plan beyond that.
He moved through the cave as he had done many times prior to acquiring the eyes of a cat and the plans of a fool. At last, he came to the lower passages of the East Tower. The corridors were sparsely lit by torches and oddly empty, given the hour.
As he moved along, he considered the third thing in his pouch: a bone whistle covered with holes arranged in weird patterns. As to that, Hemlock had said only one thing: Use this in dire need, and only that. Aelfric scowled. Any number of things could go wrong with this plan and put him in “dire need.” Surely, if Hemlock could come readily to his aid, he could do these deeds himself. For that matter, what would prevent Aelfric from simply hiding on the beach, waiting for Ragnvald to come shell hunting and sinking an arrow into him?
He had asked Hemlock that. The creature’s expression, an eerie mixture of amusement and guile, still haunted his mind. He will see you coming a mile off with such an intention. We must be subtle. We must be swift.
The immortal hadn’t elaborated on his instructions. Aelfric had no idea what would happen if he completed them. Before he could press Hemlock for details, the creature had turned his slitted gaze to the north, padded to the edge of the embankment and dove into the river, vanishing without a sound.
Aelfric broke from his thoughts as footsteps echoed in the tunnel ahead. Subtle, he thought. Swift. He quickened his pace and readied himself as a company of warlocks came into view by the light of a torch. Armed for battle, urgency surrounded them. As they marched by, one of them knocked Aelfric into the wall with a curse. He mumbled an apology and let them pass. When they had gone he continued on, puzzled that they hadn’t questioned him.
Something was happening. Maybe the Keepers who landed on the shore had survived, and these men were going after them. Aelfric hoped the herb-gathering priest wouldn’t change his routine because of it.
He moved through the corridors with all his skill to bear as companies of oborom rushed past. He ascended to the next level. Warlocks in finer attire were lined up in a clean stone passage hung with tapestries and lit with cressets. Doing his best to empty his eyes and appear obedient, Aelfric moved through, holding his breath as he noted priests among them. He ascended again, until he reached a wide corridor that led to the east gate.
Another company approached him from behind. This time, Aelfric ducked into an adjoining passage, hugging the wall as he glanced out. Armed as the first, this company moved with the same haste beneath the bark of a zealous captain.
A captain...or a priest. Aelfric waited for them to pass and then moved to the entrance of the corridor. He peered around. Sure enough, between the warlocks strode a thin man in a black skullcap containing thorns twined around the king’s standard. On one arm, he carried a basket.
When they had gone, Aelfric stepped out and strode to the large hall before the gatehouse. A gray, downcast dawn hung beyond a towering portcullis. Fog had come in from the sea, obscuring the plain beyond. It was still early. Men moved here and there, intent on their errands. In the distance, the priest and his entourage passed into the gatehouse. The portcullis opened high enough to let them through and then closed again, booming on the ground. Aelfric stayed as close to the wall as he dared without arousing suspicion. He needed a place to wait until the priest returned. He didn’t have time to get to the forest and lie in wait.
He spotted a guardroom with no one near it. Expecting it to be occupied, Aelfric approached as if he knew what he was doing, and opened the door. The room was unlit. The scent of lamp oil and fresh blood wafted out.
Aelfric’s animal instincts yowled in alarm.
Someone clutched him by the cloak at his chest, yanked him into the room and hit his face with the butt of a palm. Aelfric quickly recovered. He levered his arm and threw a tight, upward punch followed by a fist to the man’s gut. His assailant shifted around like a ghost. Aelfric twisted to avoid the next blow, which struck him in the small of his back. He caught his foot on a piece of furniture and stumbled. With the strength and speed of a predator, the fiend clasped a steely arm around his neck. The cold edge of a knife touched his throat.
“Drop your spells,” the man said.
Aelfric let the queen’s spell dissolve into the earth.
The man’s arm tightened. “I said drop—”
“I did,” Aelfric breathed. “I’m not using magic.” One problem with Hemlock’s touch: it didn’t matter.
“You lie.”
“By the Mistress, I do not.” As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Aelfric moved his gaze past the knife and into the room. Two bodies were heaped against the far wall.
A breath. “You will take me to the king.”
Aelfric thought fast. By his speech, this man was not an islander. Few oborom warriors fought with such skill and no oborom would kill his own kind an
d then make such a demand. Calmly, Aelfric said, “I am Aelfric of Tromb. I serve the queen.”
After a brief pause, the warrior lifted his blade and withdrew. He moved into the room and lit a lamp. In the growing light, he pushed the hood from his face. Beneath an oborom cloak he wore the same dull clothes Aelfric did, but with a hauberk and the finely decorated straps and sheaths of a foreign soldier. His blue eyes were not dulled by spells. “What is your business here?”
“Same as yours, I think,” Aelfric replied, working to recall where in his travels he had heard the warrior’s accent. He gestured to the bodies. “Why didn’t you press one of these into your service?”
The blond-haired warrior shrugged. “Didn’t go that way.” He sheathed his knife. “I am Adelan of Nemeton. Eusiron High Guard.”
Eusiron, the ruling seat of Ostarin. The warriors of that realm were known far and wide. Aelfric decided to get more information before revealing what he knew. “Are you a wizard?”
“No.”
“You know something of it.”
“Enough to hide, stalk and fight. Not enough to match the oborom.”
Aelfric studied him for a moment. “You mentioned the king. What is your mission?”
“My own. Yours?”
“To kill him.” The matter-of-fact statement fell on stunned silence. “Though I’m no assassin. Are you, by chance?”
The warrior lowered his gaze briefly. “I fear not.”
“What are the northmen of Ostarin doing here?”
“The Lords of Eyrie declared war on Ragnvald for the murder of three wizards. The High Guard was called upon to help. We arrived yesterday evening. We are under the command of the Ravens of Eusiron and Ostarin.”
Aelfric breathed deeply to calm his anxiety. He didn’t know those names, but he had a bad feeling about it. “How did the Lords of Eyrie find out about this?”
“Prince Wulfgar came to Eyrie.”
The Riven God Page 35