by Ronie Kendig
Poired met it, his expression one of condescension and taunting. “You are a pup,” he said, advancing, his wielding strong and livid. His movements confident, swift. Skilled.
Haegan’s feet slid in the muck and blood of the field.
“Thank you,” Poired taunted, “for calling me out, for giving me your location so I could end this charade. Prophecies.” He barked a laugh. “Abiassa’s Hand—more like Abiassa’s carnival.”
What have I done?
A shriek went up. A commotion rose from his father’s wagon. Haegan dared not look, but ’twas impossible to ignore the shrieking and shouts.
“Even your father is wise enough to know his time is at an end, his failure thorough,” Poired said. “The sooner you realize that—”
A bolt exploded from the side.
Struck Haegan’s temple. He stumbled backward.
One of Poired’s three surged against the Pathfinders. Graem went to a knee, a current of heat running through him.
Poired advanced. “You are no match. You have no training.”
Tokar struggled against a Silver nearby. Suffered a horrible blow to the arm.
Unrelenting, Poired stood mere yards away, his gaze one of red fury and delight—in tormenting. In defeating Haegan. He reached in. “Your thoughts are putty, melted and turned against you, Fierian. A futile hope for a failing civilization. End it now. End this and let—”
“Augh!” Haegan shouted, spittle foaming at his mouth as he threw both arms forward. Pushed back, shouldering into the wielding.
Where was it? Where was the blue halo? The light that severed darkness? Have I truly failed?
“Inflaming, Fierian,” warned the Tahscan once more.
Haegan blinked. Blazes. He’d let it happen again. His knee buckled. The heat became overbearing, suffocating. Moans filtered around the camp, through his people.
“We’re losing.”
“Fierian, fight it,” Vaqar said at his side.
Praegur was there, too, lifting him. Steadying him. “He’s in your head, Haegan. Reach for Her. For Her truth.”
On his right came Vaqar, who hoisted him full up. “Fight. You can do this. We are here. She is here.”
On a knee, sweat dripping down his temples and neck, Haegan focused. Truth. What truth? More blasted inflaming. He glowered through his brow. Reached for the truth of Abiassa. That’s it. He’d gotten off track. Locked his thoughts on anger. On vengeance. He must think of his friends. Of the wrong being done . . .
“Target the Tahscans,” one of the black cloaks ordered.
Cries and shouts went up.
“The one with the Fierian!”
“He’s protected!”
“I care not—kill them both!”
Abiassa, guide me.
Visions of the statues at Baen’s Crossing leapt to mind. A memory glimmered within reach of what had happened there. What could happen here. He had but to ask. Hope lanced his fear and closed his eyes. “Ïmnaeh waeïthe he-ahwl—”
Poired’s empty eyes snapped to Haegan. “He’s summoning the giants. Stop him!”
“—abiałassø et Thraeïho—” Haegan fought against the counter-wielding, the Dark One’s fear tangible in the wake that slid over the shielding. Needled through like worms in the dirt. Chin to his chest, he stared through his brow at the Dark One, thinking of all he’d done. All he was willing to kill to accomplish Sirdar’s will. “Miembo Thraeïho!”
Concern tremored through Poired, his lips parting. As if he waited.
No, he wasn’t waiting. He was searching the Void, searching the air for the thunder of giants. When the slow smile slid back into his smirk, Poired’s arrogance returned. “Seems even they are no longer listening to you, Fierian.”
The words had been strong, fierce. He would not accept defeat or rejection so readily. No longer. He’d played into that, conceding ground in this war that cost far too many lives and minds. Haegan muttered them again, caring not if the giants came, yet greedy for the strength that the words alone imbued. “Ïmnaeh waeïthe he-ahwl abiałassø et Thraeïho. Miembo Thraeïho! Ïmnaeh waeïthe he-ahwl abiałassø et Thraeïho. Miembo Thraeïho!” Again and again, he repeated phrase, his voice and their strength growing. But then the taste of those words changed. “Raqerier he-awl abiałassø and the touqaer dohn Abiassa.”
The ground trembled as if it, too, cowered at the ancient summons. Haegan worked to steady himself. Noted Pathfinders, Jujak, and Sirdarians stumbling, their swords canting awkwardly as they struggled for balance. Wary, frightened glances traced the world around them. The resonance continued until only thundering pervaded their existence, pounding ears, chests, and boots.
They’re coming. A smile pushed into Haegan’s exhaustion, like a lonely dog nudging its master. Sensing the change, the response, he continuously voiced the words, amazed when the nearby accelerants chanted with him. It pulled from something deep within him, something of Abiassa.
A great rumble shook the walls of the crevasse, pebbles and rocks rained down, and with it came a deep roar that pierced so painfully, Haegan thought his head might split.
Four Drigovudd, forms larger than the biggest of the trees, pounded into the fray. When they slid to a stop between Haegan and the Dark One, muddy earth sluiced up, slathering a dozen or more incipients.
But then came a keening so violent, so horrible that Haegan covered his ears. Men fell sobbing as blood dripped from their ears and noses.
Shadows flew across the field as great beasts descended. Raqine. Dozens of them, their wings stirring the rank air and snapping like a thunderous applause. Haegan marveled, only then noting the Deliverers encircling both him and the Dark One. Swords down but ready. Through the fabric of time, he felt their readiness for evil to fall. For this desecration to end. For all that Abiassa had designed and created to once again be beautiful.
Haegan refocused. “Poired,” he called, observing how those around him writhed in pain from the shrieks of the raqine. “You must answer for your savagery, for your alliance with Sirdar.”
Amusement turned to anger in a shift so swift and fierce, it rustled the air. “Try me,” Poired challenged, the haze growing, encompassing.
“He’s going to escape,” Laerian said from the left.
The captain was right. If Poired slipped away, they’d have to do this all over again. Haegan pushed forward, greedily reaching for the embers. Desperation hauling him another step. Another.
“No,” came the resonating boom of the Deliverer in his head. “It is not yours to do.”
As if a whip had been snapped at him, Haegan felt in his veins a tinge of fire—and then nothing save a rush of cold. Frozen, unable to move, he stared at his hands and wondered at the words of the Deliverers. He glanced to them and found impassive expressions. How could they render him impotent with such little regard?
“Have you a problem?” Poired snickered. “Still can’t bring yourself to fight me?” The man seethed, and just as fast, he was winding another volley.
From the side, Drracien crept toward the Dark One.
Haegan’s heart hitched. He already lost Thiel. He did not want to lose Drracien as well. The brace released, and Haegan staggered a step. “No,” he cried to the dark-haired accelerant, who’d been the closest thing to a brother he’d known.
“Fool and Failure shall be the only names you will know, Haegan of Seultrie!” Laughing, Poired stepped back, and as he did, day again yawned, revealing the haze that swallowed him and his entourage. He vanished behind the veil. “You could not win this battle, and you could not keep your friends.”
Haegan frowned.
“Drracien.”
Less than a dozen paces from the Dark One, Drracien drew up straight. Rage colored his face crimson. His hands fisted.
“What?” Poired taunted him. “Did you not tell them you are my son?”
Hauling in a breath did little to stem the burn that roiled through Haegan. Shock held him captive as Drracien went pale. D
idn’t argue or object.
“Drracien!” Haegan moved forward.
“Nay, my lord,” Laerian said, stretching an arm before him. “’Tis surely a trap.”
Haegan hesitated, glancing back to his friend. “No,” he said. “Drr—”
But the blue eyes came to him. Forlorn. Apologetic. And then a wave of fury. With flared nostrils, Drracien stalked toward the tear crackling the air.
“No,” Haegan grunted, as Poired’s beast stalked into the chasm.
Expression strange, Drracien turned. Faced Haegan full on. Lifted a closed fist.
“Wielding!”
Drracien pressed it to his shoulder and inclined his head. A salute. “Mercy.”
“No!” Haegan lunged forward, disbelieving as Drracien vanished with the Dark One. The truth collapsed in on him, proving what he had begun to suspect. What the Tahscan had warned. What he did not want to accept, even now. Drracien’s endless questions were not merely inquisitiveness or caring. His sudden appearance no accident. Drracien had been sent. As Poired’s spy.
Traitor.
28
Being betrayed had a certain look to it. And it was all over Haegan’s face as he sat in the command tent. Shock. Grief. The way he ignored the angry conversations over what happened and what they’d do to Drracien when he appeared next.
Tili grew concerned for the Fierian. While he had no love for the smart-mouthed accelerant, he knew the boy to have been a friend to Haegan. Betrayal was not easily accepted, and ’twas much harder forgiven when delivered at the hands of a friend.
Outside, smoke filled the air as Pathfinders burned the dead. Wounded were queued for the pharmakeia and Drigo healer to patch up. Since Poired left, the Fire King had been strangely silent. At one time, Tili might have thought it a mercy. Now, he feared the silence. Naught but trouble would come from it.
Within the tent, Haegan refused anyone but Tili, Tokar, and Praegur. His friends. He only wanted his friends. Tili wondered that Haegan had not mentioned the assassin, though she’d slipped in as well. Somehow, he’d considered her a friend, though she had been responsible for delivering him to the Infantessa. There was an alliance, Tili supposed, that grew from enduring the wiles of the wicked.
How it must pain Astadia to see Haegan here, when her brother had not survived the Infantessa. Mayhap fighting for the Fierian was the outlet she needed for her grief before it destroyed her from the inside.
Strange that he understood her so well. An assassin. Even worse that he spent so much time thinking on her. Tili stood, unwilling to sit, lest he find his brain soggier than his tunic from the cut on his neck.
“He betrayed me,” Haegan finally muttered, as if Tili moving roused his brain from slumber. He ran a hand over his head, apparently still not used to the stubble there. “How can he be working with Poired? How can he be his son?” Gripping his skull, he closed his eyes. “We were friends! I trusted him—called him a brother. He was trained at the Citadel!”
“Aye,” Tokar said. “And he killed his mentor and master—he is still wanted for that murder.”
There were no answers to assuage his brokenness, nor Tili’s failure in not giving more credence to the Tahscan’s complaint. It did, however, cement Tili’s trust in the Tahscans. He would not question them again when they brought a concern.
“That Tahscan knew,” Tokar said, holding a mug of warmed cordi between his hands. He pushed his gaze to Tili. “Pretty amazing.”
“He warned me several times during the encounter that Poired worked my fears against me.” Haegan frowned, his eyes darting back and forth. “I don’t understand. How can they smell it?”
With a sigh, Tili shrugged. “They call it a curse, yet ’twas Abiassa’s Deliverer, Draorin, who gifted them not three months past. The mark they bear came with a price. Vaqar and his band were exiled, their families murdered for their refusal to obey the queen, who was under the influence of the Infantessa. Vaqar said they welcomed the exile, came west searching to rout the true source of the stench. I think he seeks to destroy Poired as much as ye.”
Haegan considered the story. “Perhaps he is the one to kill the Dark One.”
“What?”
“The Deliverers won’t let me kill him,” Haegan said with a huff as he resumed his seat. “I tried at Fieri Keep and they twisted my hand. I lunged again this time, and they shackled me to my spot and quelled my wielding, said ’twas not for me to do.”
Tili’s head throbbed. He stretched his neck—and felt a bead of blood slide down his neck. He cringed, knowing it needed stitching.
“But still!” Haegan again punched to his feet, restless. And angry, most likely. “Drracien walked right through there. How did he do that? How . . . ?”
There were no answers. “Ye will drive yerself mad with those questions. Just accept it. Realize he is as much our enemy as Poired.” Should Tili drop root in Haegan’s drink as Negaer had done to him weeks past?
“Nay!” Haegan growled. “I will accept that only when I accept each of you is an enemy.”
“We haven’t sided with Poired,” Tokar objected.
Laerian heaved a sigh. “Drracien’s heart is dark because he is borne of it—Poired said he was his son!”
“Aye,” Praegur said. “He is not our concern, though. We must pursue Abiassa’s will.”
The room bounced violently and tilted. First to Tili’s left. Then right. Slowly blurring in the middle. Tensing, Tili jerked his gaze down, rubbing his forehead. Air. He needed air.
“Tili, after we break our fast on the morrow, how many rises until we reach Ironhall?”
Focus, Tili. Ironhall. They were . . . where? West. No, north of . . . Dorcastle. That was it. “We should reach it by nightfall.”
“Good.” Haegan nodded. “We need shelter. We need to stop moving. Regroup. Get our feet under us.”
Tili couldn’t agree more, especially when his knee buckled.
Eyes turned to him, surprised.
“If ye’ll excuse me,” he nodded—a move that sent his head reeling. Though he stumbled out of the tent, he righted himself. Took a long draught of air, and nearly choked. In his hazy mind, he’d expected the cool, crisp air of a Ybiennese evening. Instead, he got the acrid stench and smoke of burning bodies and the hot air of the east.
“You are a fool,” came a chiding voice.
Tili glanced to the side, cursing how much he enjoyed the sight of the slight frame that slipped up alongside him. “Ye would not be the first female to call me that.”
Astadia arched her eyebrow. “Then maybe you need to start listening to us.”
“Someday,” he muttered and turned—his legs tangling.
She circled an arm around his waist, and he tensed, unused to being handled. “Say naught or I’ll punch you,” she warned as she draped his arm over her neck for leverage.
He looked down at her. “Ye’re short.”
“Aye, but fast. Now shut up and walk, you oaf.” She urged him to the right.
His mind twisted again as her soft curves pressed against his side. She was not supposed to be soft. She was a hard assassin.
Nay, this was too . . . intimate. “Leave me,” he said. “My tent is”—he nearly tripped trying to point toward his tent.
“You need the pharmakeia.” She pushed him into the makeshift infirmary.
Shame rushed him. “Nay.” Never had he visited the infirmary. Ever. “Others have more serious injuries. Tend them. I’m well.”
“Right. ’Tis normal to walk like a drunk when you’ve had no cordi.”
As they staggered into the tent, Tili tightened against the humiliation . . . until he saw that it was partitioned and this section empty, save a wounded, unconscious Pathfinder, whose head and shoulder were bandaged.
Astadia aimed him at a folding chair beside a nearby cot.
The relief of sitting proved immense. And almost immediately his head cleared. He dragged in a long breath and slowly released it. Something cold nudged his ha
nd.
“Drink,” Astadia ordered, tucking her long brown hair back, which exposed her neck and the first button of her tunic that was undone, which led—
The cup. Pay attention to the cup. He tilted it so he could see the murky contents. “What is it?”
“Poison. Extra heavy dose. Just for you.” She dragged a tray toward them, scrubbed her hands in a bowl near the entrance. When she returned, Astadia bent before him and reached for the cloth around his neck.
His gut cinched when her cold fingers brushed his throat. He stilled, all too aware of the darts of heat that shot through his gut at her touch. When he spied the silver tools laid out, he scowled. “What’re ye—”
“Finishing what the Silver started,” she groused, unraveling the cloth with but a small dose of gentleness. “Now shut up.” She eyed his injury, her gold-flecked irises assessing, wincing. Then she tossed the bloody cloth aside and lifted a bottle. After pouring its contents into a bowl, she grabbed a wad of clean cloth and bent toward him.
“Nay!” Tili caught her hand, leery. “Ye know what ye’re doing?”
“Killing fools is my specialty.” When he did not leave off his suspicions, she sighed, her gaze relenting. “Aye, I know what I’m doing.”
“Ye’re an assassin. Ye put cuts in people, ye don’t stitch them. Just give me a hot blade—”
“That will mar your neck worse than it already is.”
“’Twill be quick and efficient.”
Astadia huffed. Tossed down her supplies. Glowering, she removed her belt and let it drop to the ground.
When she reached for the hem of her tunic, Tili surged to his feet. “Whoa!” Would she undress? To what end? He held a hand toward her. “Wh-what are ye doing?” The roar of his pulse made it difficult to hear.
Ye aren’t that dull-witted, Thurig as’Tili.
“Look.” She rolled her eyes and lifted her tunic, angling her stomach and hip toward him. “I stitched that myself. Trale was unconscious, and I was bleeding out.”
Hesitation held him in place. He did not trust himself to look, but when he did, more than appreciation for her stitching rose through him. Seeing her hip bared, the skin smooth—save the crescent scar that grabbed the torchlight, amplifying the discolored flesh that ran across her abdomen and raced toward her hip bone. All very tidily stitched. He had not seen so fine a work in Nivar.