From his vantage point, he could look down on the rest of the fortress, as well as the surrounding encampments. He had made certain that all of his marshaled forces were gathered at the western point, within view of his tower. If any settlements were found outside of his scope of vision, they were summarily and roughly moved to a more desirable location. It was also equally important that all of his forces could see him, or at least a reminder of him. His high chambers were perfect for such a purpose, providing an aura of omnipresence and inaccessibility at the same time.
He stretched, gathering his thoughts as well as his robe around him. He would need to leave soon if he was going to reach Relgaré’s army before they forded the Preshin. With one last look at the cloudy sky, he glanced around to make sure everything was prepared, including the empty suit in the corner. He needed to look like a commander, after all. This particular breed of armor was a specially tinted dark gray, easily hidden in the mist, lightweight, and quiet when he moved. Not that he would need armor for a while. Zyreio would protect him until the Dedication, but it helped to look the part. With a nod to his servant, who was busily packing up the various metal plates, he wandered down to the stables in the courtyard to observe his magnificent new steed.
Rhyvelad was full of marvelous beasts, some of them friendly to humans, some of them not. In Amarian’s time, many of them had gone into hiding, having been driven away Zyreio’s manifold corruptions. Only a few of them had become bold enough to show their faces (or whatever served that purpose) along the outskirts of the world’s civilized population. Gryphons had occasionally been spotted in the peaks far north of the Eastern Lands, where only outcasts and ambitious Ulanese travelers went. With a fennel body and the head and wings of a bird of prey, they were fierce creatures but quite rash, headstrong, and not well-suited for human companionship. Ealatrophes, meanwhile, verged on immortal: their gryphonic heritage made them aggressive, but their Destrariae blood was said to have flowed straight from under Kynell’s throne. As Vancien had already experienced, Destrariae cold pierced through any living thing; priests labeled it klathonus, as bright as the Prysm’s truth and as unchangeable. Such a peculiar combination of klathonus and gryphon produced a valiant, holy creature scarcely accessible to humans—unless, like Kynell himself, it decided to restrain its glory and allow a mortal to approach.
Neither of these creatures were suitable for Amarian’s purposes. But there remained one beast, one holdout that smacked of Rhyvelad’s earliest days, when giants were common and voyoté were just a twinkle in Kynell’s eye. Like the gryphons and Ealatrophes, these creatures were holdovers from the days before Zyreio’s deceit had captured the hearts of men, the days when, for all creatures, Obsidian was just a dark stain on the horizon. It was a time when men could be trusted with beasts and vice versa, so Kynell had created with abandon, instilling all his creation with a level of power, beauty, and swiftness that mirrored his own qualities. Only much later, when Zyreio had drawn many men and beasts to himself, did Kynell withdraw most of these great beauties from Rhyvelad’s mantle, leaving behind only those that begged to stay. (In order that man might not be alone, however, in work and companionship, he created galthis, or helpers. The most versatile and least intelligent of these is the voyoté, but there is also the fennel and the munkke-trophe. Since that time, many fennels have fallen in bondage to Obsidian. Theirs is a dark history, but not as dark as the Sentries, which is a history for another time.)
Of the three early giants that remained, the only ones that could now possibly be of great service to Obsidian were the dragons. The Patroniites called them eiresa because after Zyreio’s great deception, the few remaining dragons of Rhyvelad had offered to serve as emissaries between the Prysm and Obsidian. (The term eiresa means simply ‘one who chooses,’ implying that one chooses repetitively and poorly.) Kynell declined their offer, but Zyreio greedily accepted. So for many cycles, the dragon ferried messages back and forth between Zyreio’s men and Kynell’s. It was an unpopular job by any measure, earning the distrust of both parties and meriting reward only from Obsidian. Though occasionally followers of the Prysm would use their services, Kynell never officially sanctioned the dragons’ self-appointed role. Over time, the beasts grew bitter that Kynell dismissed and condemned their virtuous labors. They decided to take their pay for themselves—from the flesh of Kynell’s men and women. Such an outrage had never been done in all of Rhyvelad and punishment was swift. In righteous fury, Kynell robbed the offenders of their speech and cast them into the great subterranean caverns of Bar-norak. There their wings were effectively clipped as they drifted from cave to cave and rift to rift, forbidden from seeing the light of orbs until they repented of their heinous action. But they did not repent. Instead, they waited for the time when Obsidian would be powerful enough to release them. Sadly, the day of release of never came. Obsidian either forgot about its former employees or did not have the power to deliver them. So they continued to fly the deep shafts of the world, silently waiting for freedom.
It had taken Amarian a great deal of time and manpower to track down Bar-norak. It took even longer to discover a way inside. But eventually he managed both. Through the aid of Zyreio, he released one beast from its black imprisonment before closing off the entrance. He did not, after all, want an entire race of dragons. One was enough.
As he neared the yard behind the stables, he watched the handlers prepare the dragon for her flight. Ovna was fairly young for her kind: her grandsire had just cut his teeth when Kynell threw the dragons into Bar-Norak. Robbed as she was of speech, she had no way of communicating this to Amarian, nor did she care to. Rather, she seemed content to watch the men scurrying around her with brooding eyes that were slowly adjusting to the light. Like all dragons in those days, she was gritty black: the exact shade of the cavern walls of her prison. Her hide was not glorious nor particularly tough, but her reflexes were quicker than any beast aboveground in those days. They had been honed over a lifetime, for the vengeful dragons, not having anything else to do, frequently made war on each other in the dark.
Her tail flicked patiently, hoping to catch one of those amusing “men” beneath it. When the mood struck her, she used to lazily stretch out her long neck and nip at a passerby. Since her nips were often fatal, such a practice had not only decreased the number of her handlers but had increased their carelessness in strapping on the harness. Much to his annoyance, Amarian had almost fallen off during a test flight because of this haphazard treatment. Although he punished the neglectful handlers, he also realized that their service would not improve unless they could work without fear of sudden dismemberment or worse. So he had taken Ovna aside one day. Although no one in the camps or the castle knew exactly what happened in that interview, she rarely indulged in such playfulness again.
Today would be her first public appearance. In anticipation of his plan, Amarian had long ago sent out his bodyguard and the regiments he intended for the western front. Although they had left more than two months before, Ovna’s speed would put him there in two weeks’ time; he would arrive the same day as his troops. Then Commander Hull would make an appropriately grand entrance, sufficiently impressive to awe that idiot king and hopefully intimidate that troublesome general into submission. Amarian himself would take no satisfaction in the petty display: it was only a prelude to the main event. In a matter of days, Relgaré’s Cylini would be defeated—a task Ovna could accomplish all by herself—the king would die tragically in battle, and he, the grief-stricken commander, would assume control of the armies. A simple plot that would proceed without a hitch, especially if General Chiyo were also to disappear. That minor chore would be satisfying.
Ovna screeched in protest as the men tightened the straps, but refrained from attacking them. Meanwhile, the servant who had been packing the armor scurried into the yard and gave his package to the handlers for loading. Soon all would be ready. Amarian turned to his passenger.
“Isn’t this exciting, Captain?”
The chains scraped painfully on Gair’s already mangled flesh, but he tried not to let his voice show it. Instead, he watched the dragon with profound disgust. “What purpose does it serve to take me?”
“Perhaps I want the company.”
“I would be poor company for you. Why would you want a Prysmite breathing down your neck?”
Amarian laughed, involuntarily batting at the back of his neck. “We both know you’re harmless. Besides, what if Ovna wants a snack on the trip?”
Gair bit his lip; the man had a response for everything.
A handler appeared, dodging Ovna’s tail. “Darkness, your ride is prepared.”
“Then let’s go. I don’t want to keep the good king waiting.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Relgaré was irritable as he inspected his troops. The messenger had said his commander would be there by morning, but the hot autore orbs were by now beyond the horizon. He growled low in his throat: he had a strategy to consider and it did not involve Hull’s tardiness. The engineers had already finished the bridge, leaving the way into Cylini territory temptingly open. Now with the morning roll call of the officers almost finished, they had to plan for the next big attack before the Cylini used the bridge against them. Where was Hull?
A trumpet blared from the eastern watch, causing Relgaré to look automatically in that direction. A dark line had formed on the horizon and soon three regiments of fennels, humans, and Sentries came into view. By mid-morning, they would ford the river and reach the camp, but Relgaré sought Hull’s banner in vain. He asked a nearby officer if he could see the commander.
“No, my liege. Perhaps he has sent his troops on ahead.”
The king disagreed. Hull had said that he would be there in person: Relgaré intended to hold him to that commitment. Perhaps he was with the rear guard, or he had come another way. Just as he was about to allow his frustration and confusion to overflow into words, a screech pierced the air above them.
“Dragon! To the ballistae!”
Relgaré looked up to see a large, black dragon folding her wings for a dive. Dear Kynell, she was going to attack! He shouted hoarsely for the giant crossbows to fire, but before they could, he recognized the rider.
“No, wait! Call off the men! It’s Hull.”
At the last possible moment, Ovna pulled up from her plunge, fanned her wings, and drifted quietly to the ground. The men gave her a wide radius, purposely keeping the over-sized crossbows loaded. Relgaré approached as the dragon settled, ignoring the fact that she was eying him hungrily. His fury was such that, had she tried anything, he would have given her a worthy struggle.
Amarian jumped down and patted his mount appreciatively on the neck, then bowed as the king stormed up to him.
“My liege! I am sorry for my late arrival. Ovna here had to stop for a snack.”
Relgaré fought to keep his temper in check. It would not do to show dissension in front of the men. “Commander Hull. How glad we are that you could join us. I see that you’ve acquired new transportation.”
“I have indeed.” Amarian turned slightly as Gair was helped down by some brave soldiers. “And a new servant. Both, I think, will be useful in the fight before us.”
Relgaré did not bother to look at the bedraggled man. “I am happy to hear it. Would you mind accompanying me to my tent? We have a meeting with the generals soon and I would be grateful to have a word with you in private beforehand.”
Amarian bowed low. “It is my honor. Gair, see to my mount.”
With help, Gair reluctantly re-boarded Ovna to seek a more spacious landing place. Amarian watched him go, then followed Relgaré into his tent. Once inside, the king dropped his reserve.
“What in the Chasm were you thinking? Did you see what that beast did to my men?”
“I’m not quite sure what you mean, my liege. I believed that a show of power would—”
“A show of power? We want our power, not Zyreio’s!”
Amarian helped himself to a glass of wine. “Power is power. Now they know who is on their side.”
“What if they don’t want that kind of power on their side?” Relgaré had begun to pace. “Who wants to fight on the side of a dragon? And where in the Chasm did you get it?
“That’s not important. And those who fight alongside a dragon are those who want to win.”
“We will have victory with or without your theatrics.”
Amarian sipped his wine. “My liege, I think you’re making too much of this. She’s just a dragon. I’ve instructed her not to harm any of your men.”
“Many thanks.”
Amarian did not appreciate Relgaré’s sarcasm. Did he suspect how numbered his days were? “I am sorry, Your Majesty. I did not realize her presence would be so unappreciated. I’ll have Gair send her away.”
Exactly as he had planned, the king shook his head. “No, no. She’s already here so we might as well use her. I trust she’ll find her own food?”
“Of course. Perhaps soon she’ll lunch on the Cylini.”
“Hopefully by noon tomorrow.”
Now that the tense encounter was over, Amarian pulled up a chair. “Yes, I saw that your bridge was finished. How soon are we crossing over?”
“Tonight. The generals are coming any minute to discuss it.”
“I see. And what about General Chiyo? Will he be heading up the charge?”
But Relgaré coughed nervously and began to rub his wrist. “Chiyo has been sent on a separate job to explore the marshes. He will not be back in time for the main attack.”
Amarian received the news impassively. So the great Chiyo had fallen out of favor. While he was amused at the king’s fickleness, he was displeased to hear that the one general who might cause him trouble had slipped beyond his observation.
“I’m sure he will accomplish his task in a timely manner. Did he take many with him?”
Relgaré stared absently at the canvas walls. “No, not many. I allowed him to select fifty and he also took with him a young aide. The Sentries should be back to report on their progress any day now.”
“You sent Sentries?” Why had he not heard of this? Why hadn’t the Sentries reported immediately to himself?
“Yes, just to help us keep tabs on him. They’re fast messengers, as you know.”
The man’s ignorance annoyed Amarian. A few Sentries against fifty armed men? It was a stupid waste of resources; Chiyo would have ordered them killed by noon the same day. “My liege, may I say something?”
Relgaré jumped to his feet at the sound of approaching footsteps. “Make it quick. The generals are coming.”
“I do not know that it was wise to send Chiyo out alone. After all, he is one of your best men. Can you really spare him?”
The king’s answer was clipped as he moved back the flap of canvas to greet his officers. “Why not? I’ve got you now.”
__________
It had been harder to slay the Sentries than Hunoi had anticipated, but there were no casualties in the minor fray except, of course, the reptilian watchdogs. The first captain shuddered. Those things were pure evil and although he took no joy in their death, neither did he feel any remorse. No matter what the king thought, the Sentries were never allies. But now his attention was occupied by concern over his general. Ever since they had left camp a few days ago, Chiyo had not been himself. The only person he would speak to was his aide, Bren, and even then only in sharp commands. Hunoi could only wonder what the king had said to him in their final interview. He had asked his friend several times, but each time he was rebuffed. This evening, however, he was determined to crack the shell. They had just forded the Preshin and were about to enter the marshes far west of the Ergana; the men would need their leader if the Cylini decided to engage them.
He found Chiyo gazing into the fire by his small tent, long limbs folded in contemplation. Chiyo had never acquired a proper officer’s lodging, since his conferences were often held in the field and he consid
ered himself a man with minimal need for sleeping space. Hunoi’s arrangements were similar to his leader’s, but as long as they had pack animals, he had not seen the point in denying himself a cot and a small table and chair. Chiyo always sat on the ground; whether he was setting a good example for his men or merely being stubborn, Hunoi had yet to decide.
He stood at a respectful distance. “General.”
Chiyo did not look up. “Yes, Captain?”
“May I request a word, sir?”
“You may request it. Speak all you want.”
Hunoi tried not to be annoyed. Chiyo was his general, yes, but also a man who was being purposefully difficult.
“May I sit, sir?”
Chiyo finally looked up, his face the blank mask that Hunoi had dreaded. “Of course, Hunoi. For goodness’ sake, sit. Have you had dinner?”
“Yes, sir.”
Chiyo glanced around as his friend lowered himself onto a fallen log. “Enough. You don’t need to call me ‘sir’ in private. Why did you come?”
“To speak with you.”
“Is something wrong?”
“There will be if you don’t change your behavior.”
Hunoi was dismayed to see that Chiyo’s expression was not altered by the reprimand. How depressed had he become? He leaned forward, forcing Chiyo to look at him.
“Chiyo, what is wrong? You look as if you’ve given up.”
“And if I have?”
“You had no right to.”
“Hunoi, you have been with me a long time. Too long, I suspect. Remember when we came to Keroul? Relgaré was only a boy then and we were little older—but he was so energetic, quick both to act and to take counsel. We were proud to serve him first as our prince and then as our king; he made us forget even our longing for home. We have fought many battles under his banner, but this new threat is different. The Cylini are nothing. And Relgaré is—” Chiyo paused before saying something completely alien to his training. .” . .nothing, except he is being a fool and delivering our brave Keroulian army into the hands of Zyreio himself. When Vancien comes back from his Dedication, what army will be there to greet him? If the gods choose an open battlefield, who will be there to fight?”
The Sons of Hull Page 18