The Sons of Hull

by Lindsey Scholl

  As if struck by lightning, Verial jumped to her feet. “Jasimor!” She looked wildly at Vancien. “You must go—must not go—to Jasimor.”

  Casting one last wary look toward N’vonne, Vancien took the frightened woman’s hand. “It’s all right. Calm down. Which is it? Must I go, or must I not go?”

  “You’re going to listen to her?” Telenar interjected.

  “Why not? We don’t have a Dedication site yet.”

  But Verial had withdrawn her hand and sat back down, mumbling to herself. “He’s going to kill Gair. No, not kill him. Destroy him, little by little. All is out. I have made everything open and he won’t like it. But maybe he will.”

  “Vance,” Telenar raised his voice above her ramblings. “I don’t think she’s quite right in the head.”

  But Vance was kneeling beside her, treating her as if she were a scared kit. “Shhh, Verial. It’s all right. Who is Gair? Is Amarian going to do something to him? What won’t he like?”

  Verial’s beautiful face was tear-stained and her eyes were red, but when she spoke, her voice was even. “I hate him. I’ve hated all of them. All they do is use me. He’s using me now, no matter what I do.” She looked sharply at him. “I should leave you, but if I do, he’ll torment the only person I care anything about. I can’t let that happen. I do not know you and I do not care about you.”

  Vancien was still for a moment, wondering what he should do next. What would Kynell have him do? What she had said convinced him more than ever that she should not leave. At least, not in this state. “If you go, he will hurt you and Gair. If you stay, he will probably still hurt Gair.”

  She shook her head. “No. Gair is a knife leveled at my throat and yours. Once he is thrown into the Chasm, there is little else Amarian can do to him. He sits now on the edge of the abyss, every day looking down into it and knowing, as I know, that his life is in my hands.”

  “Who is this Gair?” Telenar snapped, finally feeling that it was safe to let go of N’vonne.

  She sighed, hoping no Sentries were close enough to hear but certain that it would make little difference anyway. “He’s one of Amarian’s guards, but he’s different. He does not worship Zyreio.”

  “He is of the Prysm?”

  She nodded miserably. “That makes him a traitor. Do you know what Amarian does to traitors? The only reason he’s alive now is because of me.”

  Vancien looked at Telenar. A spy in Zyreio’s camp? Maybe the situation was not so bad after all. “If he is a servant of Kynell, then he is under much better protection than we—or you, my lady—can offer. Kynell won’t let him be thrown into the Chasm.”

  If her experience with Gair had warmed her to the idea of good in the world, the presence of these Prysmites simply galled her. Vancien was as thick as only a boy of nineteen cycles could be. “Really? I’ve seen many a kind man thrown in there before. What makes Gair so different? Kynell’s power does not extend so far.”

  But Vancien cut her off. “Kynell’s power extends everywhere, Lady. Everywhere.”

  She didn’t have a response. Instead, she ate the food N’vonne shoved at her in silence, more certain than ever that Kynell didn’t stand a chance.

  __________

  Ranti and Corfe watched the scene with amusement. Then Corfe sent the detestable creature off to report to Amarian. That would give him a week or so of relief. He sometimes wished Sentries moved a little slower—the fact that they could run three times as fast as a human meant that Ranti would be back by his side all the quicker. He returned his gaze to the girl. What was Verial thinking, spilling her guts out to the enemy? She had gone soft, and very quickly. Corfe wondered who Gair was. He had never met him and could only presume that such a turncoat had already received his reward. A servant of Kynell in the lord’s service? What stupidity! As soon as this turncoat was out of Verial’s sight, Amarian would undoubtedly teach him a well-deserved lesson.

  He shivered from his hiding place. How long was Amarian planning to keep him on this assignment, anyway?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Gair had indeed just left Verial when the Sentries began closing in on him. He swallowed hard, not relishing the upcoming interview.

  “We are under orders not to kill you yet,” one of the creatures wheezed. They were words of small comfort, considering what followed. He attempted to fight back, but what man alive can take on three Sentries? Soon a pair of claws sunk into his arm, sending stabs of pain up to his shoulder, followed quickly by another set of claws in his leg. Kynell help him, this was going to hurt. He had fainted away by the time the second Sentry descended on him.

  He awoke a few times during the painful journey, but not completely until he was lying on a stone floor, both his arms and legs horribly mangled. Surveying the damage a little closer, he had to stifle a cry: his left leg had been severed below the knee. Where his calf and foot should have been, there was only blood-stained floor. Unclean bandages and a tourniquet had been haphazardly applied to stop the bleeding but were in no way conducive to healing. They were meant only to keep him alive.

  Then he noticed that Amarian was standing over him.

  “Welcome back, Captain.”

  The two of them were in a small cell, clearly intended as Gair’s new residence. It had a sloping, barrel-shaped ceiling that came down so low against the wall that Gair’s head bumped it from his seat on the floor. A bit of hay had been thrown in the corner to serve as a bed. To complete the nakedness of the room, there was no window; the only source of light was from the torch in Amarian’s hands. Gair watched it greedily, trying not to wince from the pain.

  “Oh, please, go ahead and grimace. I know it hurts. You know it hurts. That’s the whole point.” Amarian then lazily kicked one of Gair’s supporting arms, sending him crashing to the ground again. The scene made him smile as he settled himself on a short stool to watch the entertainment. But Gair whispered a prayer for help and forced himself to sit up again and meet his gaze.

  “You were praying, weren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know that I can tell when his name is mentioned, even thought, in my presence?”

  “You can’t make me stop.” That was a bit of bravado. But Amarian only laughed.

  “Why would I? Pray away, my friend! Pray away! Pray to that great god of the Prysm! He will surely deliver you. Of couse, you will have to suffer a little, but what is pain to a martyr?”

  Gair looked down, disconcerted that his captor knew his thoughts so well.

  “Don’t be surprised, little one,” Amarian continued. “Your thoughts are not original. Many have thought them before and many will think them again. If I cannot enter your mind and pluck them out—and why would I want to do that?—then I can read your face like a book. A very boring, poorly written book.”

  “Why am I still alive?”

  “Why indeed? I should have thrown you into the Chasm hours ago.” Amarian waved his hand at the wall as a black splotch started overtaking the stones. It grew wide, swallowing everything, even the hay, into its darkness. And as it grew, sharp cries, many of them human, began to fill the room.

  Gair gritted his teeth. Kynell would be faithful, Kynell would stand by him, Kynell would—

  “Kynell, Kynell, Kynell. Please stop saying that name. It grates on my ears so. And besides, he cannot hear you. You are in enemy territory, my friend. Deep, deep into enemy territory.”

  “There is nowhere I can go that he will not follow.”

  Amarian leaned back on his stool as the sounds of the Chasm grew louder. “Will he follow you into there? Does he like keeping company with Obsidian’s dead?”

  Gair was silent.

  “Not so confident now, are we? After all, where does it say in the Ages that no Prysmite will be lost? Even great Kynell has to take a few casualties. But at least you have the comfort that you went down for a noble cause. Feel free to tell that to your fellow believers in the Chasm.”

  Now that was too much,
even for an Advocate. Gair could not abide such treatment of the Prysm. “I will tell them that, sir, when I see them. Perhaps you would like to toss me in now and get on with business.”

  “Tempting. But I’m afraid you’re of more use to me outside the Chasm than in it. There is a reason I didn’t have the Sentries kill you.”

  From outside the door there came a chorus of tapping.

  “Hear that, Gair? They are waiting to finish you off, leaving only enough of you to throw into the Chasm, of course. They stay back only at my bidding.”

  “Then let them come.”

  Suddenly, Amarian cracked his knuckles in frustration. “Do not be so eager to die, fool! I was in the middle of divulging my wicked schemes.”

  “I don’t want to hear them.”

  But Amarian’s patience was at an end. In half a second, he was kneeling next to Gair, knife blade flashing. “You don’t have to live with your tongue! Perhaps I can relieve you of it so it won’t get you into any more trouble.”

  Gair wisely took the hint and remained quiet.

  The blade disappeared as Amarian resumed his cool demeanor. “As I was saying, you are alive only to keep a certain somebody on good behavior.”

  The shot hit its mark. Verial. What had he gotten her into? She would try to succeed in her mission as long as he was alive, and if she succeeded, then the Advocate of the Prysm suddenly lurched toward the Chasm’s opening. If he could just keep himself from being a pawn, he could help untangle this mess.

  Amarian watched him reach the opening of the abyss, then watched him crack his head on the unforgiving stone. “Don’t be in such a hurry to leave. There is still much left to be done, and I would like you to see it.”

  Biting his lip, Gair tried not to swear at the illusion. “You can torment me all you like. I probably deserve it. But what has Verial ever done?”

  “Done?” Amarian looked mystified. “Why, she hasn’t done anything. She won’t have to. As long as she’s her wretched self, things should work out just fine.”

  __________

  The next morning, tempers had calmed considerably among Vancien and his companions, although all three, including Vancien, watched Verial with caution. She tried to ignore their suspicion, knowing it was fully justified. There was nothing she could do. For Gair’s sake, she had no choice but to stay with them. All the same, it was awkward being with such average humans.

  As the small company broke camp, Telenar wondered aloud which way they should go. Vancien’s answer was short.

  “We are going to Jasimor.”

  Telenar tried to be patient as he saddled the voyoté. “Are you still convinced of that? You know that Zyreio is probably speaking through her, don’t you? No offense, ma’am,” he added hastily.

  Verial did not respond. She had no reason to. The priest was right. It had been Zyreio’s voice in her head yesterday and although she would not welcome it, she could not be certain that he would not return. It was best for them not to trust anything she said.

  Vancien mounted Nagab, searching the sky for the orbs. “Yes, I’m convinced. Do you have any better ideas?”

  Telenar helped N’vonne onto Cetla before he turned to study Verial, who had not moved from her place next to the burnt-out fire. “Other than not taking advice from the mouth of the enemy, no. But it’s always been my instinct that when Zyreio says go west, we go east.”

  Vancien smiled despite himself. “Sound thinking. But in this case, I think we have not been misguided. His motivations are of course unreliable, but a Dedication is a Dedication. What place would be more fitting than the Plains of Jasimor, where it all began?”

  “More fitting than the wellspring of evil? Hm. Let me think.”

  N’vonne ignored both of them, steering Cetla over toward Verial. She held out her hand. “It’s probably best you ride with me,” she said gently. Verial reluctantly climbed on and N’vonne could not help but feel a surge of pity. What was it like, all those cycles of forced companionship? She glanced at Telenar, who readily smiled back at her through his argument, and shuddered. She must remember to be kind to this woman, no matter what her past or her future.

  Telenar was losing the debate. How does one argue with an Advocate, especially such a bull-headed one? Of course, stubbornness may come with the territory. He sighed. Perhaps all the Advocates had been like this. “All right, all right. We’ll go west. If Relgaré has moved the army south, we’ll have to avoid them, of course. The whole region will be crawling with Amarian’s troops.”

  “Think of it this way,” Vancien called over his shoulder as he urged Nagab on. “If Zyreio wants us to be there, he’ll make sure his own armies don’t trouble us.”

  Telenar snorted. “But Relgaré’s might. We could arrive there in pieces, you know.” He glanced again at Verial. How connected was she to Amarian? Did he know her thoughts? Quite possibly; they would be wise not to mention that they had an ally in the king’s army, if only one. Zyreio could find out about that as he pleased.

  __________

  Chiyo was growing more impatient with the king every day. The march south had been swift, as if the Cylini were some major threat to Keroul. By the Plains, they had already passed the western foothills of the Duvarian Range! Did Relgaré think the nomadic tribe was going to sweep east ahead of them, then cut north and cross the mountains just to sack Lascombe? The old soldier shook his head. No, they were in retreat; the army had broken this small nation and any stand in the south was going to be the Cylini’s last, valiant gasp. From atop his voyoté, he surveyed the troops’ encampment at the meeting of the Yrghennum River—or in Keroulian, the Ergana—with the Preshin, the Ergana’s fierce tributary. Already one river separated them from Lascombe, for they had needed to cross the Ergana north of the Range for their earlier engagement. Now they would be crossing another, since the Preshin was the northern border of the Cylini’s stronghold and their last natural defense. Beyond its mighty current lay a scraggly world of marshes and plains with few resources. The Ergana, running along the territory’s eastern edge, had turned the many floodplains into huge, useless, and soggy tracts of land. How the Cylini managed to live in such a place, Chiyo could not guess. Nor could he fathom how such a poor people could amass such a troublesome army. In the beginning, they had been a great threat, but all the king had to do was turn his full attention on them and they were soon reduced to the border raids that had driven Relgaré crazy these past few cycles.

  He turned his attention back to the defenses. His men had set up fortifications as usual, digging a ditch along the outer perimeter and placing the pikes just outside the dry moat. Any voyoté jumping the pikes would break its legs on the steep wall of turf and then have to stumble up the sharp incline to face a timber wall and more pikes. All in all, a very useful defense system, but against the Cylini, it seemed like more grand theatrics. They were not so foolish as to attack the camp; perhaps once, many cycles ago, they would have been able to charge the fortifications and win. But not any more.

  His gaze moved past the Keroulian men to the soldiers brought by General Hull. The sight made him groan. They spread out like a blemish on the land—a vast, moving infection that the king had invited along. Where would these troops go when the Cylini had been finally cowed? Would they quietly march back home to Amarian’s stronghold in the east? Not in Kynell’s lifetime. First they would turn on the Keroulian soldiers, then decimate whatever army Vancien may have acquired. He shook his head as despair gripped him. He knew his own countrymen would fight for the Prysm once they had seen the Advocate. But they alone were no match for this dark army. Plus, Chiyo was absolutely certain that Amarian had more troops waiting back home. The fight would be no more than a rout, and all because Relgaré insisted on beating down the wretched Cylini.

  “General?”

  He snapped out of his frustrated reverie to see a young aide at his knee. “What is it, Bren?”

  “The king requests your presence. Commander Hull is returning soon.�
��

  “He gets around a lot, doesn’t he?”

  “I’m sorry, sir?”

  “Commander Hull. He always manages to—oh, never mind. Tell me, Bren, before I go and see the king, how do you think the men are holding up?”

  The aide shifted nervously. He was a conversational person by nature, but he had only been in General Chiyo’s service for a brief time. He hadn’t expected the general to engage in such direct conversation. “Well, sir, they seem to be doing all right. It’s just that, ” he stopped, unwilling to offer a critique.

  “Go on.”

  “It’s the others, sir. The ones that aren’t men. I like all sorts of things and creatures and such. A good friend of mine is a munkke-trophe and though he gets obnoxious sometimes—”

  “Get on with it, Bren. I know you are a fair-minded.”

  “Hull’s soldiers just don’t get along with our men. They fight well enough, but they always look as ready to kill us as to kill them.”

  Chiyo saw no reason to soften the truth. “That’s because they are, boy.” He leaned forward so only Bren could hear him. “Never trust them. Their fight is not with the Cylini, Bren. It’s with the Prysm.”

  Bren’s eyes widened at the revelation. “The Prysm? They want to fight the Patroniites? Why would they bother with priests?”

  It was a naïve response, but Chiyo did not mock it. “The priests are not the only followers of the Prysm. There will soon be a time when Rhyvelad will be divided in two. Be sure you’re fighting on the right side.”

  With that curt advice, he rode off to the king’s tent. He found Relgaré inside, giving orders to a captain. Upon Chiyo’s entrance, he dismissed the officer and offered his friend a seat.

  “Have we set up our defenses?” the king asked idly, pouring a drink for them both.

  Chiyo did not respond to such a needless question.

  “Ah, well, I see that we have. Make yourself comfortable, Chiyo. We have much to discuss.”