At last, Lluava had a chance to look at Talos, who had been moved farther away. His body lay convulsing on the floor while Varren and Byron struggled to keep him still. A third man stood over them and repeated, “Hold him down. Hold him down.”
Lluava glared at the useless “assistant” as she headed toward them. One of the Shadows shouted, “A healer is on his way!”
Talos’s clothes had been stripped from his body. Wet cloths lay discarded on the floor. Picking one up, Lluava stepped closer. Varren and Byron’s struggles prevented her from seeing how badly Talos was hurt. As she moved to help, she glimpsed a face, or what used to be one, under the shadow of Byron’s shoulder. Some of the acid must have landed directly on Talos’s head.
“Keep her away,” Varren ordered. His voice was menacing.
At first, Lluava thought the command was intended for her, but then she heard Rosalyn approaching. Quickly turning, she blocked the distraught woman’s view.
“Let me get you out of here,” Lluava said, as she reached for her friend’s slender arm. Her thoughts were on Rosalyn’s stress and her unborn child.
“Talos,” Rosalyn replied trying to peer around Lluava.
“Where is the damn doctor?” Byron shouted.
“Talos!”
Somebody asked, “Isn’t she a healer?”
Given Rosalyn’s emotional state and the horrific situation, the woman surely would not be able to function in any beneficial form. She continued to cry, “Talos, Talos, Talos!”
“Let me—” Lluava began.
Rosalyn darted around Lluava, only to collide with Byron’s torso. He had released his partner in order to keep Rosalyn away from Talos’s flailing form. Gathering her in his arms, Byron carried her away from the area. The young soldier had an obligation to protect his partner’s wife and unborn child, and he would fulfill it. But as he passed her, Lluava saw the terror in his eyes.
Someone shouted, “The healer! Where is the healer?”
There was another explosion. This time, the vile projectile landed just short of the castle.
“Everyone, get away from here!” Varren commanded. Turning to the Guard, he ordered, “Help the others to safety!”
A stranger questioned hesitantly, “But the man?”
“There is nothing to be done.”
Varren’s words made Lluava’s stomach heave. Solemnly, she looked at her friends. Talos’s body continued to twitch. Varren, still seated on the ground, had at last let go of him.
With another explosion, the remaining people vacated the foyer to seek refuge deeper within the castle.
Lluava could not bear to look at the ravaged face. Sinking to the floor next to Varren, she held Talos’s hand in hers, feeling his ragged pulse. She stared at her feet, at the broken window, at anything but her injured friend. Varren put his arm around her shoulder. And so they waited.
By the time the healer arrived, Talos had died. He had taken his last painful breath a good ten minutes earlier, yet Varren and Lluava had not moved from his side. With the healer’s assistance, they carried their friend’s body into a nearby room before the healer hurried off to see to Rosalyn’s burns.
“Should we have allowed Rosalyn to stay here with Talos?” Lluava questioned. She was thinking how devastating it would be to die without partner or lover nearby.
Varren, distraught as well, admitted, “I … I don’t know what we should do anymore.”
“Was it right for us to send her away?”
“I do not know.”
“Byron should have been here.”
“Perhaps.”
Their tears of grief and overwhelming loss were interrupted by Yena’s roaring voice.
“What in Giahem’s all-knowing mind was he thinking?”
The priestess’s voice had never sounded so uncertain, so unsure, so afraid. Stepping into the foyer, Lluava saw Yena fuming at Ammit. The priestess looked as if she wanted to strike the tall man. “It was not an order given to him. He directly disobeyed me!”
The next explosion was extraordinarily loud; the vibrations rattled windows, and a few more broken shards of glass shattered on the floor.
Yena wavered as if she were about to faint. Her face was pale in comparison to her typical obsidian hue.
“It is done,” Ammit stated.
“What is done?” Lluava asked. Varren had joined her at the perimeter of the room.
Yena slowly raised her gaze. Lluava realized it took every ounce of the priestess’s will power to do so.
As Ammit steadied the shaken woman, he explained. “The Ocean Men were going to smash through the gates. We had run out of arrows. Ruire Thoth gathered the last of your Flashbang. In his dual form, he flew with it and a lit torch, and dove at the last trebuchet.”
Lluava hesitated before asking, “Are you saying he sacrificed himself?”
“Yes, to destroy that weapon,” Yena confirmed. Her voice was once again in control.
Lluava felt numbed by the loss of so many people. “His life saved other lives and has bought us time,” she said with gratitude.
Ammit’s exaggerated grimace showed he did not agree. “The gates will fall. The damage is too severe.”
“Tomorrow…” Varren began. His features conveyed his utter exhaustion, though his voice remained strong. “We must all convene in the Lesser Hall and discuss what is to be done next. Tonight, everyone must rest, if they can. Do you agree, High Priestess?”
Yena faced toward the main gates, her eyes glazed. “Yes. Tomorrow.”
After a formal bow to the priestess, Varren escorted Lluava to her quarters. They found Byron slumped on the couch. It was clear he knew his partner had died. Whether by the length of time, the severity of Talos’s injury, or something the healer had imparted, he knew. But where was Rosalyn?
Before either could ask, the weary soldier nodded toward the alcove. “She is in there. The healer left a little while ago. The baby will be fine, as long as she avoids further extreme stress. The healer left us medicine.” He passed Lluava a vial of Idun. “But she refuses to take it.”
“I’ll talk to her,” Lluava said. She wished the little vial could alleviate the pain Rosalyn must be feeling, both physical and emotional.
“Where is Talos?” Byron asked solemnly.
“Downstairs,” Varren responded, “in a room adjacent to the foyer.” As tired as he was, he chose not to take a seat. “I will return shortly. Someone must inform Yamir.”
“Let me,” Byron said as he rose to his feet. “Talos was my partner.”
“The Obsidian Guard are nearby. They can come with you, if you wish.”
“No, thank you.”
The men gave each other a strong hug before Byron headed off. Lluava left Varren in the outer room and went to Rosalyn. The heartbroken woman lay on her side in the bed, half-covered by silken sheets. She was silent and did not acknowledge Lluava’s approach, though her eyes were wide open.
“I have medicine,” Lluava said soothingly.
Rosalyn did not respond. Finally, she uttered, “No.”
“It will help you,” urged Lluava. She moved to the side of the bed. “It does wonders with scarring.”
“He protected me,” Rosalyn’s voice was barely a whisper. “Our baby. And he… and he took the worst of it.” Tears rolled down Rosalyn’s porcelain skin, though not as many as before.
The parallel actions taken by Talos and Varren to protect the women they loved did not go unnoticed. Without taking the time to bathe, Lluava changed clothes and slipped into the bed beside Rosalyn. She gently smoothed some of the dark, tangled hair from her friend’s face. Then the pair lay next to one another, just as Lluava had done with her sister only a year before, and their weary bodies at last obeyed the command of sleep.
***
When Lluava awoke, she noticed that although the sky was still riddled with ominous clouds, the sun was out and high in the sky. However, it was not the bright light that had awakened her but a small tapping at
the window. Outside, Onyx perched on the sill, steadily pecking at the glass with his beak.
Carefully getting out of bed so not to disturb Rosalyn, she unlatched the window. The raven flew over Lluava’s head and into the main room. Following the bird, she noticed several slumbering bodies sprawled about.
Aquila was stretched out near the balcony door. Giahem’s Wings and the quiver of Talons were clutched in his hands; a bandage was wrapped around his head. She was glad that his injuries were not severe, but she was also disappointed. He could have destroyed the trebuchet. Byron snored on the couch, his clothes still smeared with blood. Varren was slumped in one of the wing chairs. Yamir was not with them. She did not know if that had to do with Varren’s presence or with an obligation to be with his clan.
Onyx cawed once and received a quick frown from Lluava. She watched the raven cock his head and shift his stance on his perch.
“You must be quiet while they are sleeping. Understand?” she asked the ratty bird. Onyx bobbed his head rapidly as if nodding.
With Issaura’s Claws in hand, she made her way to the baths. Relishing the steam of the heated pool, she gingerly stepped in. How she wished that all the evil that had occurred could be washed away as easily as the scum that coated her skin. Lluava could sense a numbing detachment growing between herself and her prior emotional strain and knew that her goddess was ever aware.
By the time she had dried off and untangled her hair, she felt somewhat refreshed. That changed as she was returning to her quarters and saw Hyrax about to knock on her door.
She cleared her throat and he turned toward her. He held a large, covered tray of food and something that smelled like hot herbal tea. “I was just bringing this to you. I have some medicine for your unfortunate friend, the woman who lost her husband.”
Lluava eyed the offering suspiciously. “How did you know that?”
“I have the knack of hearing things.” Hyrax gave a half-smile. “And this tea is infused with herbs that will help relax her, calm her nerves.”
“Why do you care?”
“Because you do.” Offering Lluava the tray, he added, “There is food here for you. It might not be what I call a lavish meal, but it was all I could scrape up.”
“Leave the tray by the door,” said Lluava, as she pondered the Guardian’s kindness. “Have you heard how Apex is doing?”
“Do you wish me to take you to him?”
“I would appreciate that.”
Hyrax led Lluava to the room designated as the Outlanders’ medical ward and pointed to Apex’s cot. She had expected the huntsman to be griping at the attendants. Instead, he was in a deep sleep, having received an extra-large dose of Idun. A healer explained that this was a precaution, as another patient had disrupted the entire ward when he left against orders, shoving the healer aside and knocking down an attendant.
The Guardian stayed with her the entire time. When Lluava was satisfied that the Incarn would recover, she asked the former councilman, “When will the discussion of our plan of action begin?”
“This evening. It was determined that every person needed maximum rest. It is critical that everyone be able to think clearly and make sound decisions.”
“So, we have a little more time till then?”
“What do you need, Lluava?”
“I need to talk to our prisoner.”
***
Alcove no longer lay in bed. Though still grizzled in appearance, he looked much more like himself. For some reason, that made Lluava uncomfortable. As soon as he noticed her physical transformation, Alcove’s mouth twisted into a smile, although his eyes were wide.
“I want you to tell me how to kill Níᵭingr.”
The blunt request did not seem to affect the man. “Some believe he cannot be killed.”
“Sweyn was killed.” Lluava made sure to observe Alcove’s reaction.
The hint of a smile touched the ambassador’s face. He inclined his head subtly, as if acknowledging a great feat. “Sweyn was a great warrior; however, Níᵭingr is far greater. Was it a good death?”
The question baffled Lluava. What made a death good? “He was slain on the field of battle. Swords to his heart.”
“God will be pleased.”
Now Lluava was not only confused but also disgusted. What sort of god did the Raiders believe in who demanded such a blood sacrifice? A good death? Was being killed in battle something to be esteemed? Was that why they never balked at war?
Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, Lluava asked once again, “How can Níᵭingr be killed? Tell me. If you want control of the Raiders, of your men, tell me.”
“He is mortal,” Alcove admitted. The swatches of silver hair over his ears had grown long and now swayed as he slowly paced in the confinement of the small room. “Beyond that, I am not sure I can offer much help. I cannot assist you on the field of battle until he is slain. If I am to regain authority over the army, my people must not see me engaging in traitorous actions. As long as they trust me, I will be able to ensure that they stay within the perimeters of our empire. You and your kind must kill Níᵭingr on your own.”
Chapter 37
The Final Council
Lluava observed Alcove. Was he studying her reaction, or just staring at her golden stripes? Did he expect her to question his usefulness? If she did, he would certainly have a counter-argument. Could he even be trusted? Lluava’s expression gave nothing away. As she began mulling over various scenarios, the ambassador added, “There is one more thing that must occur if you want me to be able to do my part.”
She knew he was trying to lure her in, like an expert fisherman ensnaring an unusually large bass. “What is that?”
“I need the horn that Níᵭingr carries with him. He is never without it. This horn is unique, from its carvings to its distinctive sound. I need that horn to prove that Níᵭingr has been killed and that I am now in command.”
Lluava was annoyed that Alcove would send her on an errand like some low-born page. “Anything else?” she replied snidely. “Want me to find your falcon and feed it for you? Retrieve your lost cloak? Polish your helmet?”
Alcove refused to rise to the bait. “The cloak and helmet have been stripped from me. My bird has most likely been killed.”
Was he mocking her? Judging her emotional outburst? No. Yet, once again, he appeared to expect something more from her. For a few minutes longer, the pair discussed the delicate plan to hand over the horn to Alcove without arousing the Raiders’ suspicion of his treachery.
When she finally left, Lluava headed back to see whether her friends had awakened. As she walked, her personal emotions faded, distancing themselves. A harsh clarity took their place. The battle was to begin anew, and she could not allow anyone or anything to impede her ability to make difficult decisions.
***
As Lluava entered the Lesser Hall, the grim faces of the survivors turned toward her. Apex was not present; he was still recuperating from his blood loss. Derrick, however, had returned and looked far more like his old self. Even Byron had attended, although he seemed preoccupied.
The room grew silent in anticipation of the high priestess’s initial remarks, yet Varren was first to speak. “The Raiders’ second-in-command has been slain, and their siege weapons have been destroyed. For the moment, it seems that we have a reprieve from battle, yet the war is not yet finished. The enemy is still under the command of their leader. From the report I received a few minutes earlier, the Raiders’ units are reforming and will attempt to breach the gates. Their resources are low as are ours. The question remains: what is our next move?”
Yena recognized Ammit, who added, “The gates are severely damaged. The Raiders could break through shortly.”
“Then fortify them,” stated Derrick. “That does not seem like a question.”
Yamir, representing the Cloven-Hoofed Clan, added, “There is plenty of debris from the damaged buildings; we could use it to patch or pile up behind the d
oors.”
“If we do that,” Varren asked, “how would we confront and fend off the Raiders, once we have barricaded ourselves inside? Moreover, the enemy will continue to poke and prod Cronus’s defenses until they find a weakness.”
Yamir shot the king a dark look. Varren had meant only to spur the generation of ideas, but the young clansman must have assumed his suggestions were being demeaned. More proposals were presented. Lluava could hear every murmur, every whisper, around the room. Although she was mildly amused at the actions and reactions each idea received, time was short, and none of the plans would succeed.
Lluava’s voice was emotionless. “The Raiders will find a way in. That is certain. They will attempt to break open the gates. We are going to let them.”
Whether due to the utter certainty of the way she had spoken or the unearthly power she emanated, not a single argument was raised. She was the Incarn of the goddess of war, and this was why she was here. Sensing doubt and fear, Lluava explained her reasoning.
“This city was designed as a labyrinth in the event of enemy infiltration. Once the gates fall, the Raiders will enter, presumably in large numbers. The narrow roadways will quickly become overcrowded and cause bottlenecks. We will block certain routes and set traps that will further isolate the enemy. Our fighters, positioned on the rooftops, will be waiting. Yamir, I need you to lead the clans in these preparations.”
Yamir’s oval eyes sparkled. “I can think of a few ideas that might work, depending on where you want these booby traps.”
“Good. You and I will talk more later. Now, to the main point,” Lluava continued. “We must split the Raiders into as many small groups as possible. This will help our odds. We do not need to kill all of them. We only need to separate their commander, Ivar Níᵭingr, from his men. Once he is slain, the enemy forces will be left in chaos. Níᵭingr carries a special horn that we must obtain; it will signal the Raiders that their leader is dead. With the loss of their military commander, we will be able to defeat an army that is no longer organized and disciplined.”
Lluava did not reveal her source of information or Alcove’s future role in assuming command of the Raiders’ army. “I will admit that there are concerns. One issue involves the strength of the buildings themselves. Many have been damaged by projectiles; others were compromised when the Berserkers and the monstrous Úlfhéðinn entered the city.”
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