The Sons of Hull

by Lindsey Scholl

  Telenar watched Chiyo during the speech, certain that such a thing was impossible, but unwilling to crush what little hope the man had left. Kynell willing, they would all die fighting for the Prysm and join Vancien in the hereafter.

  __________

  It was a grand gathering. Gair, with clean bandages, was proudly mounted on a voyoté, patrolling the front lines of the assembled forces. He looked with justified pride over the congregation. The Keroulians were bright as always, with their shining blue and gold banners. No surprise there. It was their neighbors who drew Gair’s attention. Sentry after Sentry stood at attention, their arms polished, their faces gleaming with a resolution Gair had never seen before. Behind them stood the rest of Commander Hull’s multitudes, all of them, even the fennels, with their gaze fixed on one figure.

  Gair saluted as Corfe ascended the makeshift stage. The past few days had wrought an astonishing transformation in the young man. Less than a week before, he had carried himself like a slave: disdainful toward his master but too scared to resist him. Now he was almost otherworldly. Even the Sentries and fennels were powerless before him, and the Keroulians welcomed his charisma as they welcomed the orblight. All knew that Kynell’s chosen stood among them, rightfully receiving the homage of prince and pridehead alike.

  Lors and Farlone bowed deeply as Corfe approached them, although Farlone did so with some reluctance. He had expected to find his glory in Cylini blood out here on the frontier; instead, he had been dismissed by a taciturn Commander who then abandoned the camp, now he was being forced by popular will to submit to some upstart mystic who found himself “healed.” His brother Lors, on the other hand, had discovered his life’s calling. Here was the Advocate, the chosen one of the Prysm, and he as a Patroniite had the distinct honor of serving him. Ever since Corfe had emerged from his tent with the Ages clutched in his hand, Lors had known. Who else but the Advocate could have his speech torn out by the Dark One and then have it restored by Kynell himself? Who else could command the loyalty of Sentries and fennels? Granted, the fact that Corfe was not Amarian’s brother was a problem, but that seemed like a technicality in the face of such momentous events; besides, had the two not been “brothers” in their service to Obsidian? Now this same young man stood on the stage, ready to address his legions and call down the wrath of Kynell on all who would oppose the Prysm. It was a stirring sight.

  “Men of Keroul,” Corfe began, “Men of the West, Sentries, and fennels. Most of you, like me, have spent your life serving Obsidian. You have killed many times in its name and were often prepared to die for it. Sentries, I speak most directly to you: Zyreio has persuaded your entire kind to enter into slavish devotion to Obsidian and its servants. You have been branded as henchmen of evil, children’s worst nightmares.” Some of the Sentries shifted at this last statement, uncertain that these labels were objectionable, while others fanned their ears wide to catch every word.

  Corfe noted their response. “You see? Even now, you’re not sure what to do with yourselves. What would life be without the slavery to which you’ve been accustomed? Is there life outside Obsidian? I am living proof that there is. Fennels,” he shifted his gaze to the brooding felines. “You chafe at Obsidian’s rule and rightly so. Kynell made you brilliant, free, and independent, but Zyreio has kept you enslaved. Now you must shake off cycles of stifling service to the evil one. Enjoy the freedom Kynell gave you and give him thanks for it.”

  He stopped to let the words sink in. Then, as he expected, the fennels began to slowly shed their armor, stretch their agile limbs, and disappear one by one. Soon only a few remained of what had once been a full-sized regiment. Then those, too, nodded respectfully toward Corfe and left. The Sentries watched all of this with scorn. No matter what Corfe said, they were soldiers. Corfe only hoped that he could enlist them to fight on the proper side.

  A fight was soon coming, of this he had no doubt. The Ages were clear that a violent battle inevitably took place between the two Advocates. His brief but intense scrutiny of the book these past few days had revealed that such a conflict could take place anywhere and at almost any time after the Dedication. Amarian’s return was imminent, but when he arrived, he would find an army arrayed against him. Battle would be unavoidable, and Corfe prayed fervently that the Sentries would not revert back to their old loyalties.

  In truth, their support had been an unlooked-for blessing. When he had first returned, he had spent several hours in confession, during which he had pleaded with Kynell for forgiveness and direction, and had emerged from the tent fearing the worst. Surely any Sentry or fennel passing his way would notice a change, and if any subordinate heard him talking, he might request an explanation, which Corfe felt obliged—and excited—to honestly give.

  Yet he expected no pleasant reaction to the news, and as the chief Sentry approached, he had steeled himself for any level of hostility.

  After a respectful salute, Tarl had given his report. “The generals are assembled, sir. They await your presence.”

  “Good. Tell them I’ll be with them shortly.”

  Tarl began to bow his assent, then stopped, his leathery ears fanned. “Pardon me for asking, sir, but it appears your voice has been restored.”

  Corfe nodded, then impulsively placed his hand on the Sentry’s shoulder. “You are a good soldier, Tarl. You value candor, so I will be perfectly honest with you.”

  Tarl gazed at the offending hand with a dark expression, but Corfe continued.

  “When I was in the marshes last night, my silence was broken.”

  “By whom, sir? By the Dark One himself?”

  “Amarian is gone. Off to be with his god. No, the power that healed me is greater than anything under Obsidian.”

  “I was not aware such power existed.”

  “You knew of it, although I doubt you knew its strength.”

  Tarl snorted, sweeping his claw in the general direction of the Keroulian troops. “You mean the caper those men call a religion? Kynell?” He spat out the name in derision.

  “That is the one who healed me, yes. And in my presence, I would be grateful if you did not speak of him with such disrespect.”

  Tarl’s yellow eyes narrowed in disbelief. The human had certainly acquired new confidence over the night. “I am sorry, sir. I had not realized your opinion of the Prysm had changed so drastically. I will refrain from further offensive comments.”

  Swallowing hard, Corfe shocked even himself with his next words. “I need more than your silence, Tarl. I need your support in this. I need the Sentries to change their allegiance.”

  Tarl did not move. Had the human gone mad? Never before had a chief of the reptiles bowed knee to the Prysm. He wondered if he should strike Corfe down or just neutralize him until the Dark One returned. But he could not do either. Corfe was still his commanding officer and no religious conversion would change that. Still, abandoning Obsidian was not something to be done lightly.

  “Sir, you must realize what you’re asking. Even if I were to do this thing, I cannot speak for my regiments. They have opposed the Prysm for thousands of cycles.”

  “They will listen to you, Tarl. That’s what they’re made for: obedience. And it would not hurt to remind them that Obsidian has offered them no great rewards: a lifetime of unappreciated service, usually ending in painful death. Your kind are some of the most intelligent creatures that walk Rhyvelad. Surely your soldiers will see what service for Obsidian has done for them. Besides, I’m not asking you. I’m commanding you.”

  Although Corfe’s logic did nothing to convince the Sentry, his insistence did. “As you will, sir. I will inform my regiments.”

  And so the transformation of the camp had begun, spearheaded by the Sentries, who, having been informed of the change, fixated quickly on their new duties. What their personal thoughts were, few could guess, although Corfe suspected that some of them had not been displeased with Tarl’s words.

  __________

  Amarian’s pulse
raced as the camp came into sight. It would be a small step to eliminate those useless Keroulian soldiers and their princes; the Sentries could dispatch them with little problem. The next move would then be to track down Telenar’s roving band. After that, the throne of Keroul. Then, perhaps, the domains of the West. He could almost taste the victories as he urged Ovna forward.

  To his surprise, it appeared that the troops were already assembled. That was interesting. Perhaps Corfe suspected his arrival and decided to be prepared. That would be all the more appropriate for the entrance he wanted to make. But when heads began to turn as he came into view, he sensed confusion rather than pleasure. Were those princes up to something? Why call the army together, if not to herald his arrival?

  Corfe, for his part, was not alarmed by the dragon’s shadow. He knew this hour would come. In truth, he was more interested in the reaction of his men than in Amarian. He did not move from his position on the platform, nor did his speech miss a beat. “Look!” he shouted, pointing to the descending beast. “Here is your chance to express your gratitude to Kynell. He has revealed to you the face of evil, the face of your oppressor! He sits astride that dragon and sneers down on us, believing us all to be pawns in Zyreio’s game. You, Sentries, who have never known a day of happiness in your lives—he is the cause! Men of Obsidian, be men, not the slaves he expects you to be! Men of Keroul, this man has always been your enemy. Now is the day to defeat him once and for—”

  He was interrupted by a low pass from Ovna, who tried to silence him with a jet of flame. He leapt out of the way, but her attack ignited the small stage, sending himself and others scrambling. Immediately Gair shouted for the archers and the ballistae to fire when ready, but the dragon did not repeat her attack. Instead, she was hovering thoughtfully above the Sentry companies, which had not moved in all the tumult. As the dragon waited, Amarian’s calm voice floated down over them.

  “Sentries, what are you doing? Have you so lightly abandoned me? What has this traitor promised you? Wealth? Happiness? Why do you, my greatest servants, let these men raise up arms against me? Why do you not defend—by the Chasm, you miserable stump of a man!”

  His outburst was directed at Gair, who had interrupted his silken speech with a shot so close it nicked Amarian’s ear. The Sentries looked at him in astonishment as he drew another arrow, crying, “I said ‘Fire’! Archers, fire!”

  Amarian was immediately besieged with arrows. With another oath, he moved Ovna out of range, but not before commanding the Sentries to attack the archers. To Corfe’s dismay, some of them actually did draw their weapons and lunge at the men. A melee broke out, and as the Keroulian infantry tried to force its way between the undefended archers and their attackers, a large group of Sentries under Tarl’s command turned relentlessly upon their own kind.

  Amarian would have viewed the bloodshed with satisfaction, except the archers kept firing and the ballistae were now operational. Besides, it took little military acumen to ascertain that the battle was already going against him: the Sentries who had obeyed his command were few and surrounded, while the men of Obsidian appeared to either disinterested or on the side of the traitor. Where had the fennels gone? Barking a retreat for the few soldiers who still stood by him, he impulsively scanned the chaos for the one who must be the cause of all this trouble. He found Corfe mounted on a voyoté, sword in hand, slashing at the attacking Sentries. Snarling, he ordered Ovna into a dive. The beast cleared her way with a jet of flame, igniting attackers and defenders alike, and before Corfe could escape, she was upon him. He managed to dodge the flame a second time, only to find his way into her claws, which she closed forcefully. She had barely pulled up above the fray, however, when she screeched, dropped her load, and whirled her great head around to look at her underbelly. There was lodged a ballista bolt, fired at close range and digging itself deeper into her stomach as she frantically flapped her wings. But the shot was lethal. After a defeaning roar, she plummeted to the ground, striking hard and pushing the bolt directly into her heart.

  Corfe landed with a thud, unharmed. Amarian, too, was intact, feverishly unstrapping Vancien’s body before Corfe could regain his feet and attack. Hampered by the corpse, he could only flee toward his loyal Sentries, who immediately formed a protective circle around him and began the tortuous process of retreat. By sheer desperation the small group eventually managed to extract itself, rushing into the marshes. Tarl shouted for pursuit. Corfe would have seconded his command, but for a regiment to pursue the small band into the swamp was simply not feasible. He had to settle for sending a small battalion after them, although he had little hope of their success. Who knew how powerful Amarian had become after this Dedication of his? This first attack had caught him off guard, but the next battle would not be so easy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  After sending a few Sentries off to deal with the pursuit party, Amarian could only slog through the swamp water, wondering at the last few moments. The power he had felt coursing through him was fading, as was his awareness of Obsidian inside of him. What in the Chasm had just happened? How had his triumphant return turned into a rout? Why hadn’t Zyreio struck down the turncoats? He shifted Vancien’s body, which was becoming intolerably heavy. Motioning for a Sentry to come relieve him of it, he tried to keep a wary eye on the creature to make sure it didn’t eat his prize while he figured out his next move.

  In truth, he had not felt so confused since that day so long ago, when that wild-haired instructor had tried to pawn off his lies of figurative Advocates and two gods who were really one. As Amarian remembered it, he had been so confused by the lesson that when Zyreio came to claim him, he had gone willingly with him, just for the gift of knowing that Zyreio wasn’t a figment of his imagination.

  At least on that day he had been presented with a clear course of action, however unpleasant. Now, he had nothing and nobody. Even Zyreio had left him. No, that was impossible. How could Obsidian abandon its own Advocate after Kynell had been so roundly defeated? Why would it? There must be another answer. Perhaps he was being tested. Perhaps Zyreio remembered the truth about that day. Amarian shook his head. What was the truth about that day? He suspected that there was something important he had forgotten about it, something that would give him a clue what to do next.

  He looked over at the dead body of his brother bouncing gently on the reptile’s back. Suddenly everything seemed so complicated—more complicated than it had been since, well, since that day again. Why did it always come back to that?

  The corpse was beginning to smell, so he inhaled its fragrance like a perfume. There was still his victory at the Plains. No one could deny that. He had defeated his brother with ease; little Vancien was no longer around to trouble him. He was gone.

  Amarian slumped against a tree, uncaring about the water, uncaring whether he was still being pursued. He had murdered his little brother. Disgust swelled within him, bringing with it fragments of his past: visions of Vancien as a child, learning how to fish; a thunderstorm, a rain-soaked shirt, and making fire for a stranger; Vance with straw in his hair, attempting to buck a bale of hay; the stranger by the fireplace, making Amarian shiver.

  A splash soaked his left side. The Sentry that was carrying Vancien’s body had let it fall into the marsh: the pursuit party had caught up with them and was now attacking with the zeal of converts. The scuffle was extremely violent, but fortunately the attackers were too engaged with their fellow Sentries to keep track of Amarian or the body. Silently, and without fully examining his motives, Amarian crept over to the spot where Vance had disappeared. Feeling for the cold dead arm, he grasped it and began to pull it slowly through the water until the battle was several paces away. Even then he dared not allow it to surface, but rather submerged himself up to his neck, moving swiftly until all he could hear were distant sounds of the skirmish, muffled by the water lapping against his ears. Only then did he rise, lifting Vancien up out of the sludge as he did. He had to find some high ground where h
e could dry off.

  Not too far away was an old, abandoned Cylini platform. Its wood was almost rotted through, but all he needed was a patch large enough for himself and his burden. He hauled himself up, but Vancien, now completely water-logged, was a little more difficult to manage. Only after a great deal of grunting and effort did they both make it onto the dry surface.

  Now that they were situated, Amarian took his chance to glare at the body. His little brother, murdered. By his own hand. What would Vance say? Though Amarian would never admit it, Vance had been the only thing close to a moral compass in his life. Now that he was gone, Amarian half wished that he was back again, if only to talk about these new developments. What would he advise? Probably something laughable, like praying to Kynell.

  The name of the god made him growl low in his throat. Kynell. He was the reason for this whole mess. If Kynell had been a little stronger, Amarian would have been dead on the battlefield, not Vancien. Then all would have been right. Rhyvelad would have been a happy place once again with Vancien in charge, Keroul would be as mighty as ever, and only one person would ever be the wiser. Only one person would know of the horrible choice forced upon a twelve-cycle old boy. Only one person sacrificed on the Plains of Jasimor. That was what should have happened.

  But it had not happened. Kynell was the weaker, Zyreio the stronger, and Amarian, who had once made a choice to protect his brother, had now killed him in cold blood. Amarian shook his head: a sad story with a sad ending.

  He stood up, not quite sure what he was going to do but determined to do it anyway. He might as well leave the body here, slumped gracelessly on the rotting wood. Graceless, like Amarian’s own life. The word stuck in his throat. Would there ever been any grace for him? Probably not. Self-pity? Absolutely. Fear? In boat loads. But grace was reserved for the Prysm and the Prysm did not traffic with Zyreio’s Advocate. The only grace for him was a dangerous one—one that brought the dead to life. Amarian did not trust it. He liked to think of himself as one of the most careful of Obsidian’s Advocates, so he certainly knew enough not to bring back one of his servants—not even Tsare—from the grave. Imagine what that would have done to his ego! No servant should think himself indispensable to his master. That’s why they’re called servants: to serve and be disposed of.