by Mok, DK
“Really? Even Amoriel can’t—”
“Not reliably. Not that quickly.”
Haska glanced out the window, a crescent moon hanging in the dark sky. They had some leeway, but it was bloody awful timing.
“General, take a squad and bring that son of a bastard back.”
TEN
He’d cried for her to stop as shadows spattered into blood. The dead weight of Garlet’s body had fallen from his shoulders as hands clawed at him, the hiss of steel slashing through the air. Finally, Seris had run, the brigands’ screams chasing him like winged creatures through the disfigured trees. He’d run until the noises must have faded behind him, but still they echoed in his ears.
He ran until he staggered, then staggered until he crawled, the land gradually firming beneath him. Finally, he lay exhausted on sprays of fine grass, beneath a half-bare canopy of leaves. His mind was still a mess of blood and death and hanging bodies, of curses and trades and things that slithered in the darkness, behind a face that wasn’t really there.
He felt like he was burning up with a strange fever. He seemed to drift between wakefulness and delirium, memories or premonitions of war bleeding through his mind. Death and destruction, wherever she went. A curse that couldn’t be controlled, couldn’t be stopped, only broken. A power that consumed everything around it, including Elhan…
Seris heard footsteps approaching, cutting through his groggy thoughts. Curled in the roots of a tree, he peered up to see a pale figure stepping into the moonlight, her skin spattered with crimson. The long dagger in her hand still dripped with fresh blood.
“Boy, that was a sticky one,” said Elhan. “I’m just going to lie down a minute.”
Like a collapsing titan, she keeled over slowly, falling forward onto the soft grass. Seris stared at the dagger in Elhan’s loose fist, his thoughts seething like a ball of frenzied eels. Quietly, he crept to her side, pulling the dagger from her limp hand. He took a shaking breath, his fingers pulling the bloodied fabric gently from the wound on her back. The deep slit was still pulsing weakly.
Seris carefully slid his hand beneath the matted hessian and placed a palm over the wound. He reached out with Eliantora’s gift and focused. The stab was deep and clean—the blade would have come out the other side if it hadn’t struck her sternum. Yet somehow—Seris concentrated—it had miraculously missed her lungs, spine, and every major blood vessel. A finger’s breadth further to the left, and it would have struck her heart.
He whispered a prayer and bent his thoughts towards stopping the blood. He felt the energy beginning to flow through him, and then it abruptly ceased, like a river running dry. Seris blinked, then concentrated, trying again. This time, nothing happened.
He felt a flutter of panic, reaching out desperately for Eliantora’s presence. For one horrible moment, he wondered if Eliantora had abandoned him. His mind raced urgently through his actions over the past few weeks, trying to think of possible transgressions. He’d been in proximity to a bangle, but he hadn’t worn it. He hadn’t gotten any piercings, juggled live fish, or licked blood from anyone’s face—all of which Eliantora frowned upon very seriously.
Seris closed his eyes and took a deep breath, reaching out again. He could still feel Eliantora there; she just wasn’t helping him. He pressed his palm firmly against the wound and called to Eliantora again, and he received the spiritual equivalent of an apologetic shrug.
Perplexed, he looked down at the prone figure of Elhan and noticed that her eyes were open.
“Are you trying to heal me?” said Elhan.
Seris imagined this was probably what a heart attack felt like as he pulled his hand away quickly.
“It’s not working,” he said.
Elhan raised her head weakly, taking in the slightly less stunted trees and the dry soil. She rested her head back on the ground.
“We’re on the border of the Lirel Lands. Where the fens turn into forest. Sorcery doesn’t work here.”
“It’s not sorce—” Seris sighed. “I’m going to find something to stanch the bleeding. Wait here.”
“I have some bandages in my pocket.”
“You have pockets?”
“You think I’m shaped like this?” said Elhan.
Seris felt it safer not to reply, reaching into a hessian fold. He drew out a muddy roll of cloth, which looked awfully familiar, and a small wooden pendant tumbled out. He picked it up, puzzled.
“I grabbed some stuff from your pack before I went to your tent,” said Elhan. “I didn’t know what was important, since it all looked like junk. I hope you didn’t have any sentimental mementos from your dead mentor in there.”
Seris tucked the pendant into his robes.
“My mentor isn’t dead,” he said, trying not to think of home.
Elhan lay quietly as Seris wound the roll of cloth firmly around her torso, covering the deep puncture. Though it was barely audible at first, Seris thought he could hear a distant yelling carried on the breeze.
“How far out of the fens do you think they’ll chase us?” he said.
Elhan sat up slowly as Seris tied off the end of the bandage.
“Wrong direction. That’s coming from the Lirel Lands.”
This was not reassuring news to Seris, but Elhan was already on her feet, hobbling through the trees.
“You’ve lost a lot of blood,” said Seris disapprovingly.
“I know,” said Elhan. “I was there.”
Seris glanced at the dagger still lying on the damp grass, then followed Elhan into the woods. The land rose slowly as it stretched away from the fens, turning into grass and scrub scattered with slender trees. The smell of decomposing muck was swept away by a steady southerly wind, bringing with it the scent of sweet sap and wildflowers.
They emerged from the trees and found themselves at the edge of a steep drop. They stood on the cusp of a massive crescent plateau cupping a valley of thick forest that spilled into endless hills and fields.
“That’s the heart of the Lirel Lands,” said Elhan.
“What’s that?”
Seris pointed to a distant speck of light at the far edge of the valley, sparkling faintly between the trees. Squinting across the expanse of darkness, he could just make out multiple points of light, close together and moving.
“It’s a search pattern…” said Elhan, her expression grim.
“Not looking for us?” Seris tried to work out which of their antagonists it could possibly be.
“I wouldn’t think so. Not out here. But Delmar’s done stranger things.”
Seris glanced at Elhan, her face drawn and bloodless. He decided it probably wasn’t a good time to ask more questions.
“I’m going to get some sleep,” said Elhan. “Lemlock’s people won’t follow us here.”
“They seemed pretty angry…” said Seris uncertainly.
“You haven’t met the Lirel.”
What remained of Barrat’s squadron returned shortly before dawn. The wounded were stretchered into the physician’s quarters, the injured horses led to the recovery stables, and the absent soldiers quietly noted.
Haska’s gaze moved across the strategy desk, the crowded tokens like a mess of chess pieces from a hundred different sets. She glanced up as Barrat’s hulking silhouette appeared in the doorway, waiting patiently outside.
“Mizuri, shift the rear guard into wishbone formation,” said Haska. “Eyrdis, reassign the Belass and the Umiel to the southwest quadrant.”
Haska withdrew from the buzzing chatter of the war room and joined Barrat in the corridor, taking in his scrapes and eternally grim expression.
“I understand there were casualties,” said Haska.
“The land favours the Lirel, Lord Haska. My advice would be to leave him. Prince Valamon will reach the fens shortly, and Lemlock can easily retrieve him there.”
“It won’t be in time. I haven’t waited this long and come this far to let the vermin go now.”
“Per
haps a brief look at priorities,” said Barrat evenly.
The only thing Haska seemed to be looking at was demonic hellfire, if the glow in her eyes was anything to go by.
“I’ll bring the cur back myself,” she said.
It was often difficult to tell what Barrat was thinking, but one could imagine that what he was thinking right now was, “Oh, for the love of the gods…”
Barrat knew that Haska’s proposal was, in classic military terminology, a bloody stupid idea. However, every overlord had an obsession, a fatal flaw, and Barrat supposed that this was Haska’s. For some overlords, it was a love of elaborate methods of execution; for others, it was a weakness for people who resembled long-lost loves. With Haska, well, Barrat had to admit that, to a certain extent, he understood.
“I’ll have a squadron meet you at the—” began Barrat.
“I’ll have a better chance on my own.”
“Lord Haska—”
“I’m taking Ciel,” said Haska. “I won’t need anyone else.”
This is a stupid idea, thought Valamon. This is beyond stupid. This is so stupid that if Falon and Qara could see this, they would—
Valamon froze, pebble in hand, as a faint thumping trembled through the ground. He pushed the rest of the pebbles into a mound before moving quickly into the trees. Dawn already coloured the edge of the valley, and he was still a fair way from the shadow of the plateau. He’d made it to the woods, but by the sounds of it, it wasn’t nearly far enough.
His adrenaline was ebbing, and his chest ached with every breath. He’d discarded the borrowed armour some time ago, but his limbs felt heavy and stiff in the morning air. The thrumming grew nearer, and Valamon recognised the sound of hoofbeats.
He couldn’t help thinking that he’d wasted valuable time when he should have been doing something smart or heroic. If he were Falon, he’d probably still be running, machine that he was, and he’d surely be halfway to Algaris by now. Qara would probably have constructed several spears, bows, swords, and man traps, and erected a defensible fort of some kind.
The hoofbeats slowed, but they were drawing steadily closer. Valamon raced quietly through the undergrowth, veering to the right, then down a slope into denser brush. He paused for a moment, holding his breath in the silence. He heard the hoofbeats again—a few steps, then halting, then another few steps. Heading towards him.
It sounded like only one horse. Valamon’s gaze searched the darkness for heavy branches or a good-sized rock. He could probably take on a single rider.
“Valamon.”
The voice sliced through the darkness, thick with blood and hatred.
Just not that rider, thought Valamon.
“I know you can hear me,” said Haska.
Valamon’s heart slammed against his ribcage, and he wondered whether it was possible for it to actually burst from his chest, dangling messily in a tangle of arteries and veins.
“I know you’re here,” said Haska.
The horse took a few steps closer, and Valamon pressed against the trunk of a tree, trying not to breathe. Sweat dripped from the tips of his hair, and his muscles trembled. He tried to tell himself it was fatigue, but the hollow clenching in his stomach told him something different.
“The terror you feel right now,” said Haska, “is nothing compared to what you’ll feel when you’re kneeling before me in Algaris Square, waiting for the blade to fall.”
Valamon had to admit, that was one of the frontrunners in his predictions of what Haska had in store for him. And while horrible, it was actually one of the less disturbing scenarios he’d imagined, some of which had involved Amoriel’s talents, the thought of which had left him retching for days.
“Your father will be forced to watch your execution, as I was forced to watch my father’s,” said Haska. “Kneeling before a mindless, frenzied crowd, you’ll know what my father felt, and your father will know how I felt. Helplessly watching as your head falls from your shoulders, rolling across the cold flagstones.”
There really was no comeback for that.
“Why don’t you come out?” said Haska.
There was a soft rasp of leather, then the sound of two boots hitting the ground. Fast running out of options, Valamon made a break for it.
Barely ten feet later, he crashed to the ground, fifty pounds of armour slamming the breath from him. He tried to roll away, but a heavy gauntlet cracked across his face, the fist drawing back for a second swing. Valamon caught the fist on its way down, and Haska seemed almost surprised when he returned the punch.
Haska’s hand found his throat, her fingers tightening as Valamon’s knuckles smashed against metal. The battling pair tore through the undergrowth, gouging chunks of earth and uprooting small shrubs as they wrestled across the ground. Valamon punched repeatedly at Haska’s unrelenting arm, his vision blotching with dizzying lights. His hand suddenly lashed out, searching for smooth edges. His fingers dug around the seam of metal, and with a heave, he ripped off Haska’s mask, hurling it into the darkness.
There was a beat of hellish silence.
Haska punched him once in the face. Then once in the stomach. Then once below that. Then she released his throat. Valamon collapsed to the ground in a red haze of agony, unable to breathe. Through the ringing in his ears, he could hear her rummaging through the bushes, and he tried to crawl into the shadows. Unfortunately, this would have required him to uncurl himself, which he didn’t seem able to do.
Footsteps returned to the clearing and a heavy boot landed in his ribs with a crack. Valamon gave a muffled cry, raising an arm defensively. Another kick landed squarely on his shoulder, sending him crashing into the tree roots behind him.
He caught the third kick, gripping Haska’s boot with bleeding fingers. He stared up at her and saw her mask hanging loosely by broken straps. She tried to yank her foot away, but Valamon tightened his grip.
“Tell me about your father,” rasped Valamon.
Haska tore her foot away, eyes blazing.
“You couldn’t begin—”
There wasn’t really a warning shot, unless you counted the five arrows which glanced off Haska’s armour. However, there was no mistaking the intent of the two that found their mark, one sinking into Haska’s shoulder, and the other behind her knee. Another arrow grazed Valamon’s chest as he rolled, two more landing where his head had been.
Haska staggered back with gritted teeth, shoving Valamon to the ground behind her. She quickly took on a defensive crouch as another hail of arrows clinked against her helm and armour. Figures slid rapidly towards them, and Haska drew her sword.
“Get on the horse, you idiot!” said Haska.
Valamon ran through the trees towards the sleek black mare, the sound of clashing metal ringing behind him. He leapt onto the horse’s back, and the mare raced towards the sound of fighting. Valamon wasn’t sure if this was a positive development but decided that the hand axe hanging from the saddle definitely was.
In the thick of the trees, a dozen lean figures surrounded Haska, their short, thin blades whirling as she dodged and parried. Valamon struck one of the figures with the flat of the axe, and the mare sent another two flying with a solid hind kick. Without missing a beat, Haska swung herself into the saddle behind Valamon, and the horse launched into the woods.
The ground was a blur beneath them, and the yells gradually faded into the distance. The trees thinned as they moved farther from the heart of Lirel territory, the canopy breaking into wide open sky. To the east, the rim of the sun was just rising over the edge of the plateau, colouring the tips of the trees in a luminous apricot light.
The stars faded into a pale blue sky, and Valamon saw Haska’s hands slipping from the reins. He turned around just as Haska tumbled from the saddle, landing heavily in the settling dust. She lay unmoving, two arrows still protruding from between her plates of armour. The horse slowed to a trot, then drew to a halt, turning to look at Valamon with dark, intelligent eyes.
Valamon looked at Haska’s limp figure, then at the horse’s death stare.
“I know,” sighed Valamon softly. “Me, too.”
He dismounted, briskly checking the saddlebags. He pulled out several bandages, some wads of gauze, and a flask of brandy.
“Wish me luck.” He patted the horse gently on the neck.
The horse’s expression suggested it would do no such thing, but that it wouldn’t bite him, for which Valamon should be extravagantly grateful.
Haska’s skin was pale and clammy, her breathing shallow. The first arrow had struck between her shoulder guard and chest plate, while the second arrow had caught her behind the knee. Valamon’s experience with arrow injuries was unfortunately limited to birds, and that had stopped once his father discovered what he’d been doing in the woods during the duck-hunting tournaments. The various convalescent crippled ducks that followed Valamon around the gardens had been the source of many rumours about like flocking to like.
He prepared the bandages and poured a little brandy on several patches of gauze. Gently, he removed Haska’s shoulder guard and unclasped her chest plate, clearing a space around the arrow. It had a smooth hardwood shaft, fletched with mottled grey. A little of the arrow head was visible, and Valamon let out a slow, quiet breath. It was metal and barbed.
He placed one hand firmly around the entry wound and grasped the shaft with the other. This was the part he hated the most. He took a breath and yanked out the arrow as quickly as he could. A scream tore through the woods, and Valamon found himself on the ground again, Haska’s hand clenched around his throat.
“I think we’ve been over this territory,” said Valamon. “Several times.”
Haska blinked away the sweat, her arm shaking as she tried to focus on Valamon. Her eyes jerked down towards the bloodied arrow in his hand, then back to his face with foggy recognition. Valamon held up the flask of brandy, and after a pause, Haska snatched it from him, collapsing to the ground.
Valamon pressed fresh gauze to her shoulder, winding it tightly with a long bandage.
“You won’t get far,” said Haska, her hair damp with cold sweat. “Ciel will hunt you down… We used to have horse assassins… Almost one hundred-percent kill rate…”