Arrows flew again. Several giants did fall, but it was too late to stop them all. The first giants trampled the southern end of the stake fence and rode over the Sarikarian infantry line like grass.
“Fire! Fire! Aim for the giants,” Hinck yelled, drawing as fast as he could. He missed as much as he hit, but he had no time to dwell on it.
Mercifully, giants began to fall from their horses as they were hit or stormed. In the end they felled all of the giants and over half of Edekk’s cavalry. With the giants out of the way, the infantry bounced back and quickly defeated the remainder of Edekk’s men. A few enemy soldiers rode for the trees, and Hinck and his bowmen managed to pick them off.
Then it was over. The bowmen cheered and embraced each other, jostling the unfinished parapet. Hinck scanned the snow for green-clad bodies, trying to guess the number of Sarikarian casualties. He voiced General Norcott. “Have some of the infantry gather our arrows, if they can. We have enough for one more attack, but not two.”
“It will be done,” the general said.
“How many lost?” Hinck asked.
“Too early to tell. It could have been much worse, though.”
Agreed. Hinck voiced Trevn and explained Lady Eudora’s language barrier.
“I speak a little Yeke,” Trevn said. “Perhaps I can find the memory of the spell.”
“Your Grace,” Miss Onika voiced. “A second group is coming from the north. Shall we storm those giants too?”
Hinck looked north through his grow lens but saw no sign. “Wait for my signal. King Trevn is trying to help Lady Eudora.”
“You’re bleeding, Your Grace,” the man beside him said.
Hinck glanced at a patch of blood in the center of his chest, then pulled out the neckline of his tunic. A little oozing, perhaps, but his stitches were still intact. “I am well,” he said.
A cry at the end of the parapet drew his attention. He pushed through the men until he reached a group who were pointing to the northeast.
The second wave shot out of the tree line. Hinck hoped Trevn would hurry, because if they ran out of arrows and those giants reached the infantry line, the border house would fall.
Oli
Oli’s head spun. Whatever had hit him, it had done some damage. He was drifting through a thick, cold fog. It wasn’t dark, exactly, nor was it light. A voice called his name. Then another. Then several all at once.
“Oli, Oli.”
Men, women, and children. Friendly.
“There you are!”
“We’ve been waiting for you.”
“Come with us.”
But Oli could not see them through the fog. “I’m lost,” he said. “I must get back to Armanguard.”
“We can help you.”
“Follow us.”
“This way!”
Anxiety thrummed through Oli. Something about this place bothered him. Why wouldn’t the people stop so he could catch up?
Shadows moved in the distance. Oli glided toward them, but they drifted away.
“Slow down,” he said. “Wait for me.”
But they did not. “You must hurry,” one said. “We can help you.”
Oli tried to hurry, but the nearer he came to the people, the faster they went. On and on they sailed, through the muted haze, which grew ever darker. Oli wearied of the chase. He was tired of begging them to wait. The voices grew more demanding—sometimes critical and angry.
“He’s too slow.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“He whines.”
“Because he’s weak.”
“Disappointing.”
“Failure.”
Enough of this! Oli stopped, overwhelmed by their rudeness and that his own efforts continued to fail so miserably. He would follow them no more.
He realized with a shock that he was now in utter blackness. Dread coiled in his stomach. How had he not noticed the loss of light?
Someone whispered behind him.
He turned his head. “Hello?”
Multiple whispers rose on all sides, but he saw no one.
“Who’s there?”
A shrill giggle. Hands on his back shoved.
“Hey!” Oli spun around, searched for the source of that laughter, but saw no one.
A slap on his arm.
“Stop that!”
A hand grabbed his leg and pulled. Someone cackled like a madman.
Oli swung at his leg but struck only himself. “Let go this instant!”
The hand squeezed tighter. Again someone pushed his back and giggled, high-pitched, like a woman. A fist punched his arm. Suddenly hands were all over him, grabbing and shoving and punching and pulling.
Oli struggled against them, but even with two arms, every effort failed. “Leave me be! Get off! Stop it!”
Teeth dug into his arm. Hair tore from his scalp. The laughter grew lighter, jovial. They enjoyed tormenting him. What was this place?
The violence increased. The attackers multiplied. Terror bubbled up in his throat and cut off his air. Oli had no defense. He could never touch them, but he could feel their hands and feet and teeth. He curled in upon himself and tried to be small. If he stopped screaming and fighting, perhaps they would leave.
They did not. It was as if they sensed his fear and despair—fed off it. He wanted them to be shadir but knew they were humans like him, others who had been trapped in this dark place. If he stayed, he would become like them, preying on the fear and pain of newcomers.
The hopelessness of his circumstances made him scream. This only fueled his enemy. Oli tried not to feel or hear them. He found comfort in the form of a memory. Words spoken in another time and place. A promise of peace.
He said the words aloud: “He will cover you and protect you in the shelter of his wings.”
Someone screamed.
“There is no one to protect you here!”
“No one, no one!”
“You are forgotten.”
“It’s what you deserve.”
“Arman!” Oli cried.
His assailants reeled at the name of the One God. Some went away, but others increased the passion of their attacks.
“He’s not real.”
“A lie. Lie, lie, lie!”
“You’re wrong!” Oli said. “I have seen the miracles of the One God, Arman. Known his people. Heard prophecies from the mouth of his prophet.”
Like shadir banished to the Lowerworld, the people screeched and fled. They didn’t want to hear about Arman, so Oli continued to speak about his goodness until he was alone.
“Oli?”
“Go away!” he cried. “Or Arman will deal with you.”
“Oli Agoros?”
He was about to yell again, but something in this new voice gave him pause. It was different from the others. Softer. Kind.
“Oli?”
There it was again. A woman. Oli knew her. Didn’t he? Or was this another trick?
“Your Grace?”
Zeroah Barta. Oli strained to see her. “Rosârah?” he called out, desperate to see her face. “I . . . I am lost.”
“Concentrate on Castle Armanguard, Your Grace,” she said.
Oli tried to picture it, but the darkness was too overwhelming. “I cannot.”
“Are you moving?”
He thought about it. “Drifting, yes. It’s cold here. I cannot see.” Oli blinked multiple times, hoping to help his eyes acclimate to the darkness, but he could see nothing.
“Force yourself to wake.”
“How? I can’t seem to—someone touched me! Was that you? Did you touch me?”
“I did not. Try to hold still, Your Grace. Fight the movement. I will come to you.”
“I don’t want you to get hurt.” If the people tried to harm Zeroah, Oli would fight for her. But how, if he could not touch them? Hopelessness threatened to choke him.
“Your Grace? Oli Agoros, answer me!”
So close, she sounded. Behind him. Oli whirled
around. A light bloomed in the distance. Beautiful and warm. He tried to move toward it and found he could not. He reached for it instead, desperate to grab hold. To touch that golden glow.
The light grew larger and took form. It was Rosârah Zeroah. She soared toward him, glowing like a goddess, her eyes two gems of topaz.
She stopped before him and took his hand in hers. They were so warm it burned, but he clutched them tightly and let the heat flood him until he shivered all over.
“This is not Shamayim,” he said, terrified to stay here a moment longer.
“No,” she said. “Let us leave this place.”
He nodded, speechless.
“You cannot know how very worried I was,” she said.
“Whatever for?” Oli asked.
“Because you are my friend, Oli Agoros.”
Such a thing seemed impossible, especially here, yet Oli clung to those words, thankful for them. Thankful to Arman for sending her. Thankful to Arman for his goodness.
For some time, Zeroah pulled Oli along by the hand through the murky void. While he felt uneasy, her presence was like a shield that kept him safe from the menacing darkness.
“I do not like it here,” she said. “Let me try something.”
“What?”
“Give me a moment, please.”
Oli waited, impatient to leave, but completely at the mercy of this glorious, warm woman whose knowledge of Arman made her safe and strong.
She began mumbling to herself, and Oli strained to hear her words. She was praying. Praying for help.
They suddenly appeared in another place, this one gloriously warm and smelling of grapes and roses.
“Oh my.” Zeroah’s eyes sparkled in the light and she smiled so wide that her teeth showed. “Do you feel the pull?”
Oli did not. Not like he had in the darkness. In fact, he felt like he was trespassing. “I hear music.”
“Yes, isn’t that lovely?”
Realization struck him like a blow to the chest. “This is Shamayim, isn’t it?”
“Only the gate.”
“Why don’t I feel the pull you speak of?”
“That is between you and Arman.”
“Because of my past? That is why he rejects me?”
“Arman rejects no one. It is we who reject him.”
“I bonded with shadir. I’m detestable to him. That is why the shadir are not afraid of me, like they are of all of you.”
“I suppose that’s a logical conclusion,” Zeroah said. “But Arman is not always logical by our standards. He loves us even when we don’t deserve it. He pardons the unpardonable. Haven’t you been listening as Father Mathal reads from the book?”
“I have, but . . .” He felt ashamed to say what he must. “I gave my soul to Gâzar long ago. There is no hope for me.”
“Ahh,” she said. “So that is the lie that has so trapped you. Your Grace, Gâzar has no power that does not come from Arman.”
Oli had heard Zeroah say such things before, but he hadn’t believed it possible for him. “Tell me the way out.”
“Ask the God, Your Grace. That is between you and him.”
Oli didn’t know. He had always been certain there was no hope for him. His father has always said as much. But maybe he had been wrong. Father had never been a man of integrity that Oli should give credit to his word. And even the shadir obeyed Arman above their own masters. Arman answered the prayers of his faithful—had healed Hinckdan. And Oli had been to the Lowerworld. It was not a place he wanted to visit again.
“How will I know if he accepts me?”
“He will. And you will know.”
Oli fixed his eyes on the golden gates. “But how?”
“You must trust him.”
Oli didn’t trust anyone. Except maybe Rosârah Zeroah. She certainly believed in Arman. Trusted Arman. If she could, after everything she had been through, perhaps he could too.
Trevn
Trevn watched through the connection Cousin Eudora had made with one of the giants riding toward the Sarikarian border house. In the memory, the giant was in Zuzaan, sitting around a fire, laughing with friends. “Too far back,” he told Eudora. “See if you can find the first day he met with any Kinsman people.”
“It’s not like I can ask him to show me when it happened,” Eudora said.
“I can.” Trevn recalled the Yeke word for the label dirtman, which was what the giants called the Kinsman people. “Bagir-ji,” he voiced to the giant. “Bagir-ji bodoh.” Remember.
A new scene rolled through the giant’s memory. He and dozens more of his kind stood in a field, all staring at Agmado Harton. “This is it!” Trevn strained to hear Harton, who was speaking fluently in the Yeke tongue. “How can he have learned the language so well?”
“He’s a mantic,” Eudora said. “Not a good one, but his cunning makes up for his poor talent. I can break the compulsion now, Your Highness.”
“Then I will leave you to it.” Trevn drew back to his body and opened his eyes. Cadoc paced by the foot of his cot, Nietz behind him. “Report,” he said.
Cadoc jumped to attention. “Rogedoth’s army approaches. General Ensley has arrived with Marshal Winstone and the army. They’ve assembled fifty paces back from the eastern riverbank. The general hopes Rogedoth’s army will cross the river to reach us.”
Which would be terribly unpleasant in this cold. Trevn sat up and swung his feet to the floor. “Call Ottee to fetch my armor. I must dress for battle.”
Cadoc nodded to Nietz, who slipped out the door.
Trevn voiced Hinck for an update, then Saria. While Hinck had already fought through one attack, no giants had been spotted in New Sarikar as of yet, though Saria was livid about the arrival of Empress Jazlyn and a handful of her Tennish Protectors.
“Ulrik sent her to fight the giants,” Saria said. “My council doesn’t want her here. Nor do I. But when I told her she’s not to use magic here, she said it’s not my decision to make!”
“Ulrik was likely trying to help,” Trevn said.
“I didn’t ask for his help! And if that woman uses magic in front of my soldiers, they’ll be as spellbound as the Rurekan soldiers, despite our laws. How am I to stand against such theatrics? Why would Arman allow this?”
“I cannot speak for Arman.” Nor did Trevn have time to start a fight with Ulrik. “Stay close to Father Wolbair and trust his counsel. I must go now.”
Trevn then checked in with Randmuir Khal, who reported no sight of any attackers approaching the southern border house. One less battle Trevn had to worry about, perhaps.
“Mielle? How fares Castle Armanguard?” he voiced.
“Grayson led Shanek DanSâr outside, and Kal and Captain Veralla are working with the garrison to capture the enemy soldiers Shanek carried into the fortress,” she said.
“That is excellent news. Where are you?”
“In the mind-speak classroom with Master Jhorn and—oh! Trevn, Duke Canden is sitting up. And Zeroah too!”
Trevn’s heart leapt. “Tell him to voice—”
“Oli Agoros,” came a knock in Trevn’s head.
“We thought you lost forever!” Trevn said.
“Yes, well, I still would be if Arman had not sent Rosârah Zeroah through the gates of the Lowerworld to bring me back.”
The horror of such a thing knotted Trevn’s thoughts.
“The queen says my sister needs assistance?” Oli said.
“Yes, she’s trying to break compulsions placed upon the giants fighting alongside Edekk’s men. Miss Onika and her Veil warriors had to storm some, but I would rather free their minds if possible.”
“I will go at once.”
“Your Grace,” Trevn said. “I’m pleased you are safe.”
“As am I, Your Highness. May the God be with you.”
Indeed. Trevn opened his eyes and found Ottee removing his armor from its trunk.
“Are you ready, Your Highness?” the boy asked.
; Trevn stood and stretched his arms. “Yes, Ottee. Let’s get me out with the men.” It was going to be a long day. A day, he prayed, that would end in victory.
Trevn and his King’s Guards rode out the palisade gate and onto the snowy plain. To the east of the river, hundreds of soldiers were slowly forming into ranks. The day was bright and cool, the sun hidden behind a hazy sky. Wet snow packed hard under the horses’ hooves.
Trevn checked in with Sir Keshton, whose scouts put Rogedoth’s army less than an hour out. Madam Kempe’s report from the Veil matched this. Trevn and his men rode along the line, greeting the soldiers and thanking them for their service, one of which was the bannerman who was carrying his Book of Arman in a pack on his back.
Trevn admired Armania’s blue uniforms and banners, the latter of which had been remade to depict his new insignia—a circle of flying Nesher birds. That is what Armania would soon be: free.
Sharpened stakes had been driven into the ground along their side of the river, but Trevn couldn’t imagine an army charging through that deep water. Recent snowfall and warmer temperatures had left the water swelling up the banks.
They reached the forest on the northern end of Mishor Field. Timber cracked as a huge barktree fell, whipping past evergreens, breaking their branches, and dropping out of sight. Silence reigned for a moment, and Trevn heard the distant chops of other axes. The general wanted more trees downed in the forest to stop the enemy sneaking through. The archers had pounded their own stakes into the ground around them, making a protective barrier to hinder mounted attacks against them.
Trumpets caught Trevn’s attention, and he and his men rode back to the center of the field, where General Ensley had positioned himself.
“Our enemy comes,” the general said, nodding across the river.
Already? Trevn turned his horse and could barely see movement in the distance. “Madam Kempe?” he voiced. “What do you see?”
“The front lines are mostly compelled Puru. Kinsman soldiers are positioned toward the rear. And there is a new section of mounted giants. Then a single line of mounted riders, perhaps fifty, with Rogedoth at the center with his mantics. The back line is archers—again, mostly Puru. I think there are about three hundred of them. There are quite a few of the rat birds flying above them. The creatures seem drawn to Master Rogedoth. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Warriors of the Veil Page 10