Warriors of the Veil

by Jill Williamson

  “Ready to flee so soon?” Jazlyn extended her arm as Ziyph’s gowzal returned to its perch. “Ziyph, sabab bay êsh!” she yelled, and the bird shot away in a ball of fire. It struck one of the four on foot. The giant screamed and staggered about, his entire body engulfed in flame.

  The remaining three giants turned and fled just as Cherem’s gowzal fluttered to Jazlyn’s feet.

  “Cherem, gawdare!”

  Cherem screeched and shot away in an orb of green light that spread out slowly like a beam and struck the remaining giants—those on foot and those on horseback—and knocked them into the snow.

  The Sarikarians gave chase, killing the nearest downed giants with stabs to the back. Those giants on horseback spurred their mounts into a gallop for the distant tree line.

  Jazlyn sent Ziyph in one last cloud of fire that chased the giants into the forest. The blast never made contact but sizzled into the snow, melting a large swath down to soggy dead grass.

  Cherem appeared before Qoatch in his original fiery orange likeness. My gowzal is dead, he said.

  “Nor do I see Ziyph’s,” Jazlyn said. “No matter. We did what we came to do. Do you think they will return, Qoatch?” She turned her deep brown eyes upon him.

  “They would be fools to do so, Great Lady,” he said. “They are terrified of you.”

  “As well they should be.” She started for the castle. “Let us wait out the rest of this battle inside. Once it is over, we will finally be free.”

  Hinck

  When Hinck’s wagon reached the castle, Princess Saria and Master Vento were waiting—Saria wearing trousers and a coat of chain.

  “Why are you dressed like that?” Hinck asked as Master Vento drew back the heap of blankets and furs and examined his wound.

  “I’m taking your place at the border house,” Saria said.

  “You are not!”

  “Empress Jazlyn has retired to her chambers,” Saria said. “You’re to let her know if more giants attack, though she lost all three of her birds in the fight, so I don’t know how much help she’ll be. How bad is it, Master Vento?”

  “The army physician did a fine job,” Master Vento said. “The scar will likely be worse now, though.”

  “One more scar will hardly be noticed at this point,” Hinck said. “Saria, you’re supposed to stay in Sarikar. We promised the council—”

  “That one of us would remain,” Saria said. “Now that you’ve returned, I can go.”

  “But you—”

  She leaned down and pecked his lips. “Get well, my husband-to-be. I would hate to lose you.” She patted his shoulder and stalked away. “Derroh! Is my escort ready?”

  “Saria, come back here!” Hinck voiced.

  “Arman has answered my prayers by bringing you back—in mostly one piece. Now it’s my turn to fight for New Sarikar. So wish me the God’s blessings and take care of my house.”

  Then Princess Saria of New Sarikar walked out the front doors and was gone.

  “The God’s blessing upon you, Saria,” Hinck bloodvoiced, his gut churning with helplessness. “I will take care of your house if you will take care of my wife-to-be.”

  He felt her amusement. “I live to serve.”

  An hour later Hinck was back in his chambers, confined to his bed by Master Vento’s order, but he could neither rest nor relax. Not with Saria away, fighting in the war without him. Hinck wanted to be there. To protect her. He knew of only one possible way to do that.

  Hinck called his guards to keep watch over his body and entered the Veil. He concentrated on Saria and appeared at her side. She was riding a horse south along the snowy bank of the Great River, water on her right and a thick forest on her left. Behind her followed the Earl of Faynor and a contingent of Sarikarian soldiers, dressed in green livery. There must have been at least two hundred. Only the first twenty rode horses. The rest were on foot. Why wasn’t she at the fort?

  Hinck bloodvoiced Saria. “What news, Princess?”

  “I’m riding south from the border house, trying to run down the survivors from Lord Edekk’s army. Several dozen were spotted on their way to join the Pretender in battle.”

  “Have they much of a head start?”

  “I don’t think so,” Saria said. “They were spotted not a half hour ago. We’ve come across at least ten Puru, who look to have fled the battle, but no sign of any Kinsman soldiers.”

  Hinck soared ahead, seeking out the enemy. Before too long, the Armanian battlefield came into view in the distance, so he turned back, thinking he must have missed them. He flew north over the snowy ground, looking for tracks. He saw the fleeing Puru, but no Kinsman traitors. It wasn’t until he spotted Saria and her men in the distance that a flash of red drew him into the forest. He sailed into the dark wood, weaving around snow-covered trees, though he probably could have passed right through them.

  He happened upon a cluster of warriors with red capes and black tunics that bore embroidered snake and goblet sigils. Tace Edekk himself was among them, standing beside his servant, Natod, who Trevn had learned was a mantic.

  Hinck drifted back out of the forest, noting how close Saria and her men were. “Saria!” he voiced, moving up beside her. “Edekk and his men are hiding in the trees just south of here. Send some of your men into the forest to come up behind them.”

  “How do you know that?” she asked, frowning.

  “I’m in the Veil,” Hinck said.

  “The Veil! I thought you’d given that up?”

  “I’m not one of Miss Onika’s warriors, no, but that doesn’t mean I forgot what she taught me. Besides, I wanted to help you.”

  A wide smile curved her lips. “Well, I am glad you did. How close are they?”

  “See those three large boulders in the river up ahead?” Hinck asked. “Edekk is in the woods straight across from them.”

  Saria slowed her horse and informed Lord Faynor and her guards about the pending ambush. “Sir Menel, take twenty men through the trees to attack them from behind. I’ll call a rest to give you time to get there. Lord Faynor, ready your men to fight.”

  Saria drew her horse to a stop and announced a brief rest. Sir Menel peeled out of formation and headed for the back of the line, while the earl turned to face his men.

  “Keep watch on them, Hinck,” Saria said. “I don’t want any surprises.”

  Hinck returned to the traitors in the forest and wished he’d practiced storming. He understood the concept well enough—and the dangers. He spent the time counting thirty-six traitors and deciding which he’d storm first, if he got the courage to try. The tall one with more warrior tails than hair of his own. Tace too, of course. And Natod. No Sir Jarmyn here. Where was he?

  One of Edekk’s men peeked out through the trees. “They’re moving again, lord,” he hissed. “It won’t be long now.”

  Tace urged his men toward the clearing. Tree branches snapped and dumped snow to the ground as thirty-six men attempted to sneak through the forest.

  “She’s nearly here,” the lookout said to Lord Edekk.

  “Close enough,” Edekk said. “Natod, with me.” The tall, slender man strode out of the forest, his manservant beside him carrying a white flag.

  “Princess!” Edekk called, his normally stern expression twisted into an odd smile. “I am relieved to meet you here. We’ve been trying to surrender but lost our way in the forest.”

  Saria reined her horse. “Did you just bloodvoice the word truth, Hinck?”

  “No,” Hinck said. “But don’t forget his man Natod is a mantic.”

  “Just you and your mantic surrender?” Saria asked the duke. “Or all those men waiting in the forest too?”

  “She knows!” Edekk yelled, drawing his sword. “Attack!”

  Natod dropped the flag and yelled some foreign word that knocked Saria, her guards, and Lord Faynor off their horses. Tace’s soldiers charged out from the cover of the trees, bellowing battle cries. They headed straight for where Saria had p
ushed to her feet, sword at the ready.

  “Cut them down!” Saria hacked her blade at Edekk, who lunged aside and sliced his blade across the flank of Saria’s horse. The animal reared, and Saria dove out of the way. She landed well and cut down the nearest traitor with a slash to his calves.

  Sands. Hinck hadn’t realized the woman could fight.

  Natod fixed a savage gaze on Saria and started mumbling. Fairly certain mantics could see the Veil, Hinck moved in front of him. Sure enough, Natod’s eyes widened and his speech trailed off.

  “You’re not the only one with magic here,” Hinck said.

  Shockingly, the man turned and ran like a coward. Hinck took the moment to check on Saria. She twirled out of the way of a strike, parried another, and stabbed a man in the gut.

  Hinck spotted Lord Edekk and six others dart into the woods just in time to meet Sir Menel and his men coming out.

  Sir Menel engaged the traitors, but Lord Edekk sprinted south through the trees. Saria gave chase, so Hinck flew ahead to see if he could find where Natod had hidden himself.

  That’s when he saw the second ambush.

  Trevn

  The Armanian arrows that had poured down upon Rogedoth’s infantry had greatly damaged his numbers. Chieftess Charlon had released her shield in order to turn the river to ice. Trevn marveled at her skill, though he still felt uneasy accepting her help.

  At the general’s command, the mounted cavalry advanced stirrup to stirrup toward the river, spear-tipped lances out and ready. They started slowly, taking care over the ice, then, on the other side, began to trot. Grayson popped ahead, stopping any aerial fire attacks with small magical shields. Madam Kempe stayed with Trevn in the Veil.

  Trevn and his guards rode in the third line, swords in one hand, shields in the other. Behind them, a thousand infantry marched on foot. Trevn’s stomach roiled with his own anxiety and the impact of the combined emotions around him. His muscles ached from being tense for so long, and his heart pounded in his ears, keeping beat to the sounds of the advance muffled by his bronze helmet.

  Trevn’s line crossed over the frozen water. Once they reached the opposite bank, they nudged their horses into a trot, then a canter, chasing after the cavalry. Up ahead, the first line had lost their tight formation and broken into a gallop. They delivered an erratic shock attack to a somewhat lopsided shield wall. The wall broke in several places, and the cavalry fought their way through, cutting down any Puru in their path. The second line pushed forward to engage the remaining Puru with spears, swords, and maces.

  “With me!” Trevn yelled, steering his horse toward a gap. The plan was for the cavalry to pierce deep into the enemy ranks and divide them in two. Trevn was to work his way up the middle, straight toward Rogedoth.

  Up ahead, a horse reared. A second turned and bolted back toward the river. A third kicked the horse beside it.

  “Shadir are entering the horses!” Kempe voiced, moments before Trevn’s horse shrieked and jumped to the side.

  “Then get them out!” Trevn reeled from the confusion he felt emanating from Seeker. “Whoa, boy!”

  “Dismount, Your Highness!” Cadoc yelled, already on the ground. “The horses have gone mad!”

  Trevn slid off Seeker, and Cadoc dragged Trevn away by the arm. Novan slapped Seeker’s rear, sending him streaking back toward the river. All around them the animals were bucking, leaping, kicking, and rearing.

  “Grayson! Onika!” Trevn reached for both at once. “Get the shadir out of the horses!”

  Trevn and his men picked their way carefully past the nearest horses. He thrust his sword into the air, shouted, “For Arman!” and ran into the fray.

  He slashed his sword out around his shield, cutting down one Puru, then another and another, trusting his guards to protect his back. A slice to the neck, a severed arm, a thrust to the abdomen. Men screamed, both with fervor and pain. The occasional horse charged through, though the Veil warriors seemed to have dealt with most of the animals. The staff of a poleaxe slammed against Trevn’s sword arm and stung all the way to his shoulder. Novan ended the wielder, and Trevn pushed forward.

  Moul Rog’s giant horses charged past, their riders pulverizing the enemy with swings of their massive battle-axes. Shadir did not seem to have overtaken them. Enemy giants tore out from the depths of the Puru infantry, and the two groups collided in a cacophony of roaring battle cries, squealing horses, and axes hacking through leather and flesh.

  The sky was filled with slashing weapons. Trevn’s shield took the brunt of the blows. Noise and emotions bombarded him. Thunder of shield against shield. Shouts of rage and pain. He tried not to let it affect him. As he moved deeper into the fight, each man who fell created a swell of confusion among the still-standing enemy as they fought to defend themselves and keep their footing on ground littered with the dead and dying.

  “Attack!” Trevn yelled.

  Nietz was fighting with an axe. He chopped down a Kinsman traitor, who fell into the snow and tripped two Puru. Trevn and Cadoc struck them down, then lunged over the bodies to reach new opponents.

  Trevn swept his shield left, taking a Puru man’s pike thrust, then he jabbed his sword forward and ran the point into the Puru’s chest. He twisted the weapon and ripped it free. Another man was on his right, swinging for Rzasa. Trevn sliced across the back of the man’s neck, then moved forward again. A Kinsman traitor came at him with a spear. Trevn kicked him hard, smashed his face with the shield. The man fell screaming. Trevn took a half pace forward. A spear jabbed toward his face. He ducked, twisted away, lunged again.

  The chaos did not allow Trevn time to anticipate the moves of any one opponent. The Puru pushed and shoved each other. Whether they were seeking more space in which to fight, pushing to the front for greater fame, or Oli had broken their compulsions and they were trying to flee, Trevn didn’t know. All around them bronze and iron clanked and grated, and soldiers shouted war cries such as “For Arman!” “For the king!” or the more basic, “Kill them! Kill!” The Puru and giants yelled too, though Trevn didn’t understand them.

  The Armanian infantry continued to force the enemy back over fallen bodies. More Puru went down, wasting their blows on the air as they stumbled and fell. A pike took Bonds in the side of the head and he fell into the dead. Trevn had no time to mourn the man. A group of Kinsman soldiers in red livery surged up on his right, lunging and stabbing Armanians as they came. Leading the charge was Sir Jarmyn Koll, dressed in shiny bronze armor as fine as Trevn’s and wielding a two-handed longsword.

  “I promised Lord Edekk I’d bring back your head, King Lackbeard,” he said. “So come here and let me chop it off.”

  Trevn slashed his sword at the traitor. Sir Jarmyn caught Trevn’s cut with the flat of his blade, threw off the attack, then whipped his sword back toward Trevn’s head. Trevn let his magic connect with Sir Jarmyn’s mind. He anticipated and blocked the attack with his shield, then flung his blade around it, striking Sir Jarmyn’s side. His blade glanced off the man’s armor.

  Hundreds of weapons clashed around them. Men cried out. Boots shuffled over slushy snow. Trevn stepped back, nearly tripped on a dead man, but managed to keep his feet. He raised his shield as Sir Jarmyn cut down toward his head and cleaved his sword deep into the wood.

  Trevn jerked his shield to the left, and when Sir Jarmyn’s arms and sword went with it, exposing him, Trevn stabbed his side, between the leather points holding his breastplate together.

  Sir Jarmyn gasped and yanked his blade from Trevn’s shield. He staggered, dragging Trevn’s sword arm with him, so Trevn released the grip and pulled a dagger from his belt. He used his shield to plow the dying man to the ground, then stabbed his dagger through his visor.

  Sir Jarmyn’s body shuddered. Trevn set his knee against the man’s breastplate and yanked out his sword. He thrust it above his head and stood.

  “Who else wants to fight the king of Armania?” he yelled.

  This foolhardy invitat
ion brought forward three Puru and a bloodied Kinsman wielding a mace. The man swung his weapon, which struck one of the Puru in the back of the head. As the Puru man fell, Trevn slashed his sword over the bearded face of the Kinsman before he could again swing the mace. Nietz drove his axe into a Puru man’s chest, and blood sprayed Trevn. He stabbed another Puru, ripped his sword free, and bellowed, “For Arman!”

  An echoed reply rose up, and Trevn felt the heat of Arman pulse within him. A savage calm descended, banishing the bitterness in his gut and the tenseness of his muscles. They had reached the Kinsman traitors, and Trevn deftly cut down the red-uniformed men who had defied Arman and House Hadar. They were the worst kind of deserters, hiding at the back of a compelled army. Trevn screamed and fought and took Justness in every kill, sending each man to stand before Arman’s bench, for Wilek, for Rystan and Dendrick, for little Chadek and the children sacrificed for dead giants, for Lord Idez, Eudora, and Bonds, for hundreds of Armanian soldiers, and the compelled Puru and giants whose free will had been stolen.

  Trevn was Arman’s chosen, and he fought like it, slicing and stabbing any who crossed his path until they lay in a tangled and bloody pile at his feet. A sword slammed against his back, but his armor stopped the blow. Nietz growled and split the man down like firewood. On they fought until suddenly there were no more ahead.

  Trevn and his men had fought through ten ranks of Rogedoth’s infantry and reached the other side, but they’d gotten off course. He turned back to look into the fray, his guards forming a wall between him and the battle. They stood on the southern end of the line, too far from the distant streaks of green fire. Somehow he and his men needed to cross to the other side of the fighting, over half a battlefield away.