He imagined Avonderre Harbor, the jewel of the Cymrian Alliance, where guardian towers topped with light had once welcomed thousands of ships from around the world into the safe haven of its docks and the men who crewed them into the warmth of its hospitality, now riddled and broken by assault from the air, its harbor now a graveyard of those ships and the men who crewed them.
His mind, overridden by the ire of the wyrm now in control of him, imagined the gentle harbor of Port Tallono in the southern kingdom of the Lirin, a place his own grandmother had once helped build, when her wisdom was used for good rather than for destruction, decimated in blood and fire as Avonderre had been.
He pushed the picture of his wife out of his mind, knowing that she would be fighting with everything that was in her to spare her realm from invaders from Sorbold who doubtless were engaging her on two flanks, from the sea and from the south, assaulting the forest that had not seen invasion since the Cymrian War four hundred years before.
And all the way to the east past the coastline of Sorbold, he imagined the coast of Windswere in the Nonaligned States, where helpless orphans, children, and babies and the female acolytes who had cared for them lovingly had been butchered or catapulted, alive, into the sea, all by the order of the man who now called himself emperor.
He did not even feel his last vestige of restraint as it cracked within him.
Ashe raised the ancient sword of elemental water over his head.
The surf around his legs spun in churning waves.
The blade of Kirsdarke spun with them, sending blasts of spray skyward.
In the distance he could hear someone shouting his name, but it echoed, inert, deflected by his concentration. His dragon sense did not register anything except the mammoth power swelling within him, the element of water drawn into the air by the sword that was born of it.
Beneath his feet, planted in the sand, he sensed a cracking within the Earth, a trembling that changed the currents around him, sending them into a spinning vortex.
The dragon within his blood sensed an overwhelming increase in the power of the waves around him.
With everything he had, Ashe returned to the picture in his mind of the coast of the lands on the other side of the Wide Central Sea, half a world away.
Pockmarked by wanton destruction.
Occupied by the forces of the enemy.
Blockaded from the rest of the world.
And, with every thought, every sense, every intent he was able to summon, he channeled all his strength through the elemental sword of water.
Directing the wave homeward.
* * *
“Lord Gwydion! Lord Gwydion!”
Atop the swiftest horse he had been able to seize from the seaside livery at the harbor, Vincent de Malier was thundering in approach, holding on to the reins for dear life. The elderly Cymrian’s face was set in a grim mask of concentration, his eyes blazing, as he rode down the peninsula of Sithgraid, shouting Ashe’s name into the wind.
In the distance he could see the Lord Cymrian standing in the surf, and he tried not to choke at the sight. He had been one of the people who had witnessed the vigil of MacQuieth a millennium and a half before, had seen the captain of his vessel and the commander of the Second Fleet toss the sword the Lord Cymrian now held above his head into the waves and wade out into the surf, his eyes locked on the southwest, where the Island of Serendair had been, half a world away.
Where he stood, up to his thighs in the surf, staring southwest, refusing the company or sustenance of anyone but his daughter-in-law, Talthea, his grandson, Aidan, and his newborn granddaughter, Elsynore, who held vigil with him from the shore.
Awaiting the death of the Island of Serendair.
And that of the son who had stayed behind to guard it.
It was a sight that had broken the collective heart of the Second Fleet.
The Lord Cymrian’s seeming repetition of the event now terrified Vincent even more.
He urged his mount forward mercilessly, the hoofbeats thundering a terrible tattoo along the sandbar that was the peninsula of Sithgraid.
Vincent ceased his shouting, knowing that it was lost in the wind that was beginning to pick up markedly. He bent his head down over the horse’s neck and held on tightly, in a full gallop, down the peninsula.
Before him, he could see a marked withdrawal of the waves that had been pounding the coastline a few moments before. With each new wave breaking toward the shore, the water in the seabed seemed to pull back a good deal more, until even the demarcation of the lowest of tides had been exceeded. Fish flapped on the sand, suddenly exposed, amid swales dotted with shells and seaweed, driftwood and pebbles.
With each withdrawal, the water seemed to rise higher.
Finally Vincent arrived at the end of the penisula. He dragged his horse to a halt and shouted into the sea wind.
“Lord Gwydion! Lord Gwydion! Please!”
The Lord Cymrian didn’t seem to hear him.
Rather, he watched water beyond the naked sea bottom rise and turn in its direction, then head out to sea.
Slowly he lowered the sword as he stood in the dry air of the seabed. As the taller wave withdrew, heading east, new water flooded back in, incrementally, quickly covering Ashe’s feet, the next wave his calves, the next his knees, and finally his thighs until the waves were crashing as they customarily did.
Vincent shielded his eyes and looked farther out to sea. The elevated ridge of water was still there, moving beyond his sight.
Still heading east.
Vincent opened his mouth to speak, but could force no sound out. He swallowed and tried again.
“Lord Gwydion!”
Finally Ashe turned around. His red-gold hair, which had caught the sun a few moments before and reflected back like copper melting in a forge, had cooled in the coming of evening. His face was pale, and his eyes seemed focused once again.
“Lord Gwydion, come, please,” Vincent urged from atop his mount. “If we hurry, we can sail before dusk.”
The Lord Cymrian just stared at him.
“M’lord?”
“Sail? Dusk?”
Vincent sat up a little straighter in the saddle.
“Indeed, m’lord. Can you not hear the bells?”
The world around Ashe was moving more slowly than he was accustomed to, the sea winds buffeting his face. He shook his head and concentrated.
On the wind were the vibrations of bells: carillon and church bells, harbor bells and bells on fishing boats.
All clanging in a random tintinnabulation, filling the air with frantic music.
“What is happening?” The three words took more effort than he ever remembered expending in speech.
Vincent exhaled deeply.
“The fleet, m’lord. The fleet is preparing to deploy, under your command—all of it, every warship, even those that are not yet commissioned. Everything but the fishing boats; they would never stand the voyage to the continent.”
He waved his hand to the Lord Cymrian.
“Come, m’lord! The consulate voted unanimously, and the harbormaster has summoned all the captains to sail. We leave as soon as you return.”
“The—wave,” Ashe stammered. “We will be following a wave—”
Vincent’s face took on a serious mien.
“Aye, that might be a complication,” he said. “We have dealt with such waves at sea before, and it was not a pleasant experience. But at least this time it is heading in the other direction. And we will once again have the Kirsdarkenvar to lead us. Come; let us be on our way.”
30
THE THRESHOLD OF DEATH, SOUTH OF BETHANY
The line of soldiers stretched into the west as far as Anborn could see.
The Lord Marshal was seated atop his warhorse, riding the line as he did each morning, inspecting the recruits and the arriving enlisted soldiers as well.
Only this day, instead of the makeup of the line consisting mostly of volunteers, adol
escent children, and those who had survived previous conflicts when the remainders of their families hadn’t, and so were serving for lack of anything better to do now that life had lost all meaning, the defense barricade was largely peopled by soldiers who had been recruited and trained by his nephew for the last several years, who had followed him from Canderre after his meeting with Solarrs, Knapp, and Rhapsody.
An experienced, well-trained fighting force, admittedly outnumbered by the vast Sorbold army, but one to be reckoned with.
Anborn looked out over them with an unmistakable fondness. While the men-at-arms who had served with him, some from the Cymrian War itself, rode the line in sections, taking battalion leaderships along it from the western sector to the eastern encampment, he was assessing his new troops, soldiers who had chosen in peacetime to take up arms and train to defend the Alliance when no apparent need to do so had presented itself yet.
Even though they were new in his command, he felt immensely akin to them.
He, like they, had taken up arms cheerfully and with the belief that to do so was a noble way to spend one’s life.
Or to lose it.
As he looked out over their faces now, most of them youthful but occasionally some in middle age, still in fighter’s trim, still excited in the anticipation of battle, he remembered how it felt to be one of them, in days far gone by. As peaceful and secure as days may have been when they first took up arms, there was no misunderstanding now that the war they were about to enter would be brutal, that they were facing an enemy that had long trained, had long planned this destruction, and that outnumbered them seven times over.
And still there was glow to their cheeks, shine to their eyes.
They were looking to him with the same loyalty and vigor that he had felt for his original commanders, the men who had taught him all that he had known, not just about swordsmanship and defensive maneuvers, horsemanship and battlefield configurations, but camaraderie, valor, and endurance. He had trained with them, fought beside them, bled beside them, carried their corpses out from the desolate grounds of battles lost, and buried them with honor.
He remembered them, when all of history had forgotten their names.
The field commanders were counting off their muster now.
Anborn rode to the eastern battalion and stopped before them, standing in a seemingly endless assembly.
“Men of the Alliance,” he said solemnly, his voice booming over the encampment, “today we begin the purge that will return the holy city of Sepulvarta, the City of Reason, to its religious leadership, will drive the aggressors from our homelands, and will take back control of the Middle Continent. The nation of Sorbold, under the leash of its new emperor, has committed atrocities not only on the religious city-state, but across the Known World. It is time he and his armies are brought to heel.”
A roar of approbation echoed across the plain.
Anborn hid a smile of delight at the sound.
“Rules of engagement,” he continued briskly. “Any Sorbold soldier who surrenders on the battlefield or off it is to be captured when possible, though never at the risk of your lives or those of your comrades. No wanton or needless destruction is to be visited upon their towns and villages, though, of course, those towns and villages must be subdued first in any manner necessary within your training and your oath. No women are to be defiled—”
A mass snort of amusement rumbled across the plain; Anborn smiled.
“No civilian women,” he corrected. “In short, you are to comport yourselves in a manner that will not reduce your own humanity, but that will at the same time ensure victory of our cause. Because the cause you take up this day is not just a noble one, it is an essential and necessary one, the driving out of a monstrous invader, the protection of your own homeland. It is the righteous defense of the Known World, Life, and the Afterlife. When you are contemplating your objectives, do not lose sight of the urgency and importance of your mission—for failure will cost this world far more than I can put into words. Are you ready?”
The answering call of yes sir! rolled over the fields of grass and all the way to the foothills of the Teeth.
“The first wave will ride with me to the aid of Sepulvarta; the second will defend the Threshold,” Anborn commanded. “Your comrades who remained behind while you advanced to this place are at this moment defending the northern city-states of Roland; our prayers go with them. Divide and come with me, First Wave; Second Wave, may the All-God guide your swords and arrows, and mind your horses, cavalry. Mount up!”
The shout of acclaim that answered him sent a thrill through Anborn’s blood and reinvigorated his battle-aged bones. He nodded to the field commanders of this division, then set off westward, to repeat the call to arms to each of the factions that would follow him south this day.
THE HARBOR OF VIENEZ, GOLGARN
Far past the Firbolg mountains to the south, a thousand leagues away from where the Lord Marshal was addressing his troops, a ship was docking in the quiet port of Vienez in the seaside kingdom of Golgarn. It was a royal ship, but that notwithstanding, its arrival was unheralded, its flag the standard not of its own kingdom, but that of the new Emperor of the Sun in the neighboring land of Sorbold.
The ship, after a drawn-out dispute with the harbormaster’s vessel, was finally allowed to land in the royal dock, much to the outrage of its sole passenger.
Beliac, Golgarn’s king.
He waited, silently and impatiently, as the various documents of passage, harbor certificates, and logbooks were examined, inspected, and eventually approved, allowing the ship to off-load its single passenger and copious cargo, then strode down the gangplank to the pier and eventually to the street, where a royal coach had been summoned but had not arrived yet.
“We had no notice of your return, sire,” the minister of the harbor said sheepishly, trying to keep his eyes from meeting the furious gaze of his king. “You departed six and a half months ago; we did not know what had happened to you.”
“I’ve been at war, you imbecile,” the king growled. Then he coughed, somewhat abashed at the overreach of his statement. “Or at the edges of it.”
“Yes, Majesty.” The minister turned at the sound of horses’ hooves approaching, clattering against the cobblestones of the street. “Do you wish to return immediately to the palace, or will you be stopping at the Sea Duchess, as you did before you sailed?”
“To the palace, of course,” Beliac said, climbing into the coach as the minister held the door. “The royal family members are no doubt beside themselves with worry.”
* * *
The royal family clearly was beside itself, Beliac discovered upon returning home, but worry was not the emotion that had them in its grip.
Upon being greeted by the palace servants, the king was escorted into the dining room, where he discovered his wife, Queen Eunice, and his eldest son, Prince Hariton, at supper. The crown prince rose immediately to his feet at his father’s arrival, wiping his mouth with his napkin, while the queen remained seated, a look of unmistakable displeasure wreathing her face as she chewed and swallowed the bite of food she had taken in as he entered the room.
“Father! Welcome home.”
Beliac nodded to his son. “Hariton, good to be with you again. Dearest, you are looking well.”
The queen said nothing, but dabbed her mouth and folded her napkin decidedly.
The servant-at-table looked around awkwardly, as the queen was occupying the king’s customary seat.
“Never mind,” Beliac said, gesturing toward the empty chair at the other end of the table. The servant-at-table quickly pulled it out, and the king sat down.
All the waitstaff disappeared in the direction of the buttery.
The queen and the crown prince returned to their meal, while the king of Golgarn stared in amazement.
“Have you all gone quite mad?” he demanded as his wife and son looked up again. “What happened to decorum?”
“Sorr
y, Father,” Hariton said nervously. “How was the coronation?”
“Did you meet the Lady Cymrian?” his wife asked, laying down her spoon again.
“Lady—no! I didn’t come within a thousand miles of her. What is the matter with the two of you? Where are the other children?”
“To bed,” said the queen, taking up her spoon again. “What kept you, then?”
“Are you unaware that the Known World is at war, dearest?” Beliac demanded.
The queen and the crown prince exchanged a glance.
“I am aware that Golgarn is without its navy,” Queen Eunice said finally. “Much of the palace guard has been redeployed to help protect the harbor from an undesirable element that has sprung up since you gave the emperor of Sorbold our warships, but of late they have also recently been fired upon by incoming vessels, as has the harbormaster.”
“You must be joking,” Beliac said as the servants-at-table returned, bearing a simple repast, which they set before him.
“I assure you, Father, ’tis no joke,” said Prince Hariton seriously. “The Spider’s Clutch is running rampant on the waterfront now. And we have had to repel several attacks just outside the palace walls.”
“This is insane!” Beliac sputtered. “Attacks? Was it the Bolg?”
The queen and the crown prince exchanged another glance.
“What?” the king demanded. “Why are you behaving so oddly? Has that encampment of Bolg been the instigating force behind all this insanity?”
“The good news, Father, is that there are no Bolg,” Hariton said after a long moment.
“What do you mean, no Bolg? An entire outpost of them was discovered not long before I made my alliance with Talquist, the emperor of Sorbold. Up in the hills, not three leagues from here! It was grisly, I tell you—you were here, Eunice, when the scouts came with the reports—human skulls on guard posts, partially eaten body parts strewn everywhere—”
“It was a fraud,” said the queen steadily. “There were never any Bolg within three hundred leagues of this land.”
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