Cinders on the Wind

by Louis Emery

  “It seems a bad day for another murder, what with the Duke’s Feast and all.”

  “That’s tonight?” Sho said. She couldn’t believe she forgot Lord Staverly’s event. She knew King Greenvale would be attending as well—a visit to inspect the progress of his cousin’s overseeing and rehabilitation of Quinlander.

  Abera nodded. “Funny how nobility tends to celebrate when times are dark.”

  Sho did not disagree.

  They’d rounded a corner heading down a quiet, narrow street, a shortcut to Watch Hall where they would try to trade information, if any, with either Lord Sheriff Scargood or Bailiff Willoughby.

  Sho saw the figure first. The person had the build of a man, and she tried to make out the face which was lowered and shrouded by the shadows created by the edges of his cloak hood. She realized he wore a black-cloth mask, and a second later the man had cut his palm, pointed, and casted. A flood of cerulean ejected from his hand toward them and Sho shoved Abera aside as the ray of light struck the stone wall beside them, fragmenting bits of the building on impact.

  Abera immediately fired her handbow at the assassin but he hid behind a parked cart, the horses stirring at the commotion. Sho cut her palm and casted, speaking in Statinge, “Ether, grant me air and spark.” The spell cast, she felt her hands buzz and a light opaque blood-orange orb encircled her hands. She heard the low hum of sorcery, like a sheet of warped metal being bent. She crouched, moving toward the cart. As soon as she did, the man popped out, using his powers to hurl Abera through air ten feet down the cobbles, before she could get off another handbow shot.

  Sho looked back at her assistant who fell unconscious to the cobbles. The man now directed his attention to her, launching a second blue flame. Sho flung herself aside, crying out as the beam grazed her shoulder before smashing into more stonework. Fighting back the pain, Sho flung a small orb at the assassin. He tried to duck, but the sorcery caught him in the side, singing his cloak. He grunted and stumbled then ran back to the cart.

  From behind the wheels, he ejected forced air from his fingertips, reaching out toward her. Sho felt herself rush backwards and collide with the wall. She’d thrust her head forward just in time, so only her back and legs hit. She fell to the cobbles, trying to regain the breath knocked out of her. Sensing another attack, she rolled on the ground, seeing a beam whizz past her head by inches and hearing a crack.

  Sho forced herself up and hurled another orb, straining at the sorcery burning in her mind, trying to increase the power behind it. The orb narrowly missed the hiding assassin, instead hitting the back wheel of the cab, obliterating the bottom half, splinters flying. This spooked the two horses, legs flinging in the air and taking off with the unmanned cart. His hiding place gone, the assassin turned and fled down the street.

  Sho ran after him, briefly stopping at Abera who was sitting up, dazed.

  “I’m okay…” Abera said, probing the bruising bump on her forehead.

  Her assistant alright, Sho sprinted after their attacker. He swerved down another narrow side street, and when Sho rounded the corner she conjured a flaming disc that manifested between her fingers and she flung it like a plate. The assassin turned back just in time to see the projectile. He dove out of the way, and it hit a lantern-pole, the lantern crashing down in shattered glass and dented metal. A passing dray horse reared, skidding to a halt before the obstruction. The driver nearly lost his seat. The assassin helped him complete the task, flinging him through the air to crash into a nearby fruit stand, as nearby onlookers gawked.

  Sho ran toward the cart but couldn’t reach it before the assassin jerked the reins of the complaining horse and turned it around. From his seated position, he launched another powerful, burning blue ray. Sho leapt into a nearby alcove, the sorcery speeding by. Peeking out, carefully, she saw the assassin violently whipping the horse as it sped off in the distance.

  Sho went back to check on Abera who was now on her feet, reloading her handbow. Sho bent down and collected blood drops spilt from the assassin, inflicted when her sorcery found its mark.

  That afternoon Sho got something from the blood drops, rather than cryptic warnings and vague images. She’d opened the dark chest she kept in her study, using a black text with darker spells. Sometimes, to uncover designs of dark magic one had to use forbidden incantations.

  And they worked.

  She’d cut her palm and carefully read the verboten words while rubbing the assassin’s blood residue down her eyelids—the dark way, to tap into the designs of a practitioner of the black arts.

  This time the visions gave her shadows and blurs, along with flashes of Backland soldiers and camps. At first she couldn’t make out the words spoken in the ether, but then they came to her: Kontera… the northern army…General Byers and Captain Fayne. She’d heard of the general before, one of King Greenvale’s top military leaders, but the Captain was foreign to her. She suspected these were the assassin’s next targets after that night.

  After these discoveries, Sho had a hunch and went with Abera to Lord Staverly’s feast that evening. Neither of them wore the gaudy dresses of the nobles’ wives, mistresses, and daughters that perambulated the great hall of the Duke’s Manor. Sho told Abera to dress for action, if it came to it. They both wore trousers with fine velvet cloaks. As she stood sipping a glass of wine amidst well-outfitted nobles, Sho felt the weight of the spell-blade in her cloak pocket. Glancing over, she could see the slight bump of Abera’s handbow beneath her jerkin just past the elbows.

  Lord Staverly made a short, voluminous speech, welcoming and thanking his cousin King Greevale for his and his family’s visit in times of war, saying that with his army’s aid the rebellion would be quashed soon so that efforts could be redoubled on deflecting the West Ballardian and Crowley aggression from the north. Lord Staverly also thanked his many guests, and then circled the room to converse with his supporters. He welcomed Sho and Abera, and afterwards the two of them greeted Bastion and Jaster, whose wives were nowhere to be found. The men stood by a fountain of stacked flagons of red wine, dwindling its contents.

  Sho and Abera wandered the hall saying platitudes to well-dressed strangers, keeping an eye on King Greenvale and the two sorcerers present. Surrounded by his Kingsguard, the king looked tired at the head table next to the queen and his daughters and their lord husbands. He conversed with the sundry nobles paying homage and sipping on his jeweled wine cup. She felt sorry for the man, his kingdom at war on two fronts, a rebellion to the west and an invasion from the north. She’d heard the threat from the West Ballardians was quite severe, and she wondered if the end times predictions of the doomsayer warlocks of her Order had any merit.

  Sho also let her eyes wander away from the king, and she intermittently scanned the room.

  The duke tended to stand out due to his carrying voice and girth. A man in his mid-fifties with many responsibilities—both in Prestonpan Fells and Isles—he looked like he didn’t miss many meals or opportunities for banter. The man’s residence was impressive, the many rooms, the great hall filled with a great many important people in addition to the king—earls, viscounts, wealthy merchants, speculators, along with liveried footmen and ceremonial-garbed bodyguards. Sho wondered how prepared Staverly’s guards were in comparison to the king’s, and if Bastion stayed sober enough to keep his wits.

  The small stringed troupe at the corner of the hall struck up music, and Sho heard a sweet melody and saw the floor cleared and guests participating in the dance along with Lord Staverly and his wife. Momentarily distracted, she caught King Greenvale just leaving the hall with Bastion and Jaster and two Kingsguards closely behind. Sho nodded to Abera and they followed. The manor was large and Sho and Abera stayed back as the men crossed an echoing corridor and rounded a corner. They heard a large door close, and slowly approached the turn.

  By the time they came close to the door, they heard raised voices. “Let’s listen,” Sho whispered. “Be ready.”

  Abera no
dded, and they crept up to the door. Sho heard a cry of pain followed by a scuffle. She already had her blade lined with blood from her palm, knowing the oaken door would be locked. She casted and the wood around the handle cracked as if a destrier collided with it. Sho pushed and the door flung open. The two Kingsguards lay dead on the floor, their chest wounds smoldering.

  Jaster held two blades pointed at his friend Bastion, the wooden replacements for his index fingers hanging limply to the sides on the handles. The masked assassin held the king by the collar of his doublet, Greenvale’s crown dangling askew on his head. Gaming dice and cards littered the desk and floor at the center of the room.

  “Make a move,” the assassin said, “and I’ll twist his head completely around.” King Greenvale cried out as his neck jerked, the assassin’s right hand held close, fingertips glowing with blue sorcery. “Then I’ll kill you both and the king’s entire family.”

  “Okay, whatever you want,” King Greenavle pleaded. “I’ll sign the order to evacuate. The garrison will be gone in days.”

  “Don’t, sire,” Bastion said, his arms raised. “Don’t give in.”

  “You can’t stop an incursion from Phozanti,” Jaster said, swords raised. “Not you, or them,” Sho saw him motion to her and Abera, “not the garrison. A full force of Phozantin navy and army will obliterate what’s left of the soldiers stationed here. They are better off keeping their lives and sailing back to the capitol.”

  Bastion said, “Why Jaster? Why betray your rightful king? I’m… I was your friend!”

  Jaster flashed a spiteful look to Bastion. “You forget Phozanti is my home kingdom. This island is just a cantankerous fief that means little to me. And you,” he pointed a sword at the king who struggled in the assassin’s grasp, “you don’t belong in power. You shouldn’t have let Mage Orbist judge my trial, give such a verdict. It’s a pity he’s not here. Now you’ll know what it’s like to lose.”

  Bastion suddenly sprang for Jaster. Blades clattered. Sho flung a chair sitting behind the assassin and it collided with his back. Still holding King Greenvale, the sorcerer fired a blue flame. Sho somersaulted, her body humming with sorcery, and the beam hit a shelf of books, shards of parchment raining down. The assassin backed toward the window at the opposite end of the room, making escape with his captive. Sho looked over and saw Bastion lying dead from a sword wound, while Jaster scrambled for the window himself. Abera’s shot from her handbow found its mark, and Jaster collapsed to the floor.

  “No!” the assassin cried out. He then launched a beam at Abera who hid behind an upturned table, the sorcery cracking and splintering the thick wood.

  Sho moved in closer. The assassin reached for his father-in-law’s grasping hand. Jaster struggled, dragging himself on the marble floor, bolt protruding from his back, leaving a trail of blood. He collapsed and lay still after making it two feet.

  Sho saw panic in the eyes just above the mask and she sprinted in the assassin’s direction, rapidly flinging a table at both his and the king’s legs. Both men fell to the floor. With her ethereal power, Sho flung King Greenvale across the floor, to get him away from the assassin. Sho felt herself flying through the air from her opponent’s sorcery, connecting with a bookshelf. Her head throbbed at the pain, but she regained her feet and hurled a flaming disk that emerged between her fingers, dealing the death card to the reaper himself. Her sorcery collided with the assassin’s cerulean beam he’d launched the same instant.

  An explosion burst in the center of the room, the sound deafening. Windows shattered and furniture slammed against walls, obliterating on impact. Smoke filled the room. She looked over to see the king crawling toward the entry door, his neck bleeding from the wound where scorching sorcery burned through his skin. Abera reached out a hand and pulled him behind the cover of the table. Sho coughed and squinted through the dissipating smoke. The assassin already vanished out the shattered back window.

  35

  The trees marking the beginning of the Thornvine sat tranquilly before them. Not as tall as those of Redwoodia, they were still imposing with their height. Stray boulders dotted the ground as if a giant had crumbled a ridge in his hands. Before reaching the forest, Malcolm saw some of the rocks had foreign markings—the language of the Gulls.

  “What does it mean?” He asked the captain.

  “Something along the lines, ‘Death to outsiders. The war god is always hungry.’”

  “Are the Gulls always this hospitable?”

  Captain Halarn chuckled. “Indeed. If they don’t bother to kill you, they’ll probably make you a slave, and if you’re not a good slave, then they’ll bother to kill you.”

  Malcolm raised his brows, “Looks like the trick is to avoid them.”

  “Easier said than done.” Halarn kept a serious gaze ahead. “The Gulls have many a manner of observation points. The trees, for one. You’ll notice, as we get deeper in the ’Vine the pines grow at odd angles. They’re called the slanting trees, just as large as their straight brethren and just as thick, but they make an easier climb for Gull scouts to keep vigil over the forest, outward and down. Then there are the boulders. They get quadruple the size you see here. Over centuries, the tribes have carved steps into them to ease their climb to the top. Better to see who’s coming up there. They’ve also quarried tunnels and caves within these rocks to hide and ambush outsiders.”

  “They’re sure territorial,” Malcolm observed, “not wanting trespassers.”

  “Since their beginnings,” Halarn continued, “they’ve been accustomed to war amongst themselves. The tribes never got along. Only on occasion have they united to raid our towns, or fight the Gothveesi and Vanalinks straying too far from the Needle-Tips.”

  “I wonder if, someday, a full Backland and Nasant army could subdue these belligerents.”

  Halarn shook his head. “It’d be a trap for such a large force. The Gull tribes know the wilderness too well. They’d burrow and hide, setting booby-traps and sneak assaults. The cost in lives would be too great. That’s why they’ve managed to eke out their existence within the rock canyons and forest.”

  They were now well into the woods. The wind blew the pines above them, and they whispered back. Malcolm noticed this route to be a trail, no doubt taken by Halarn and his men before. He felt thankful to have the man’s insightfulness in such a hostile, foreign environment. They trekked steadily upward, the land elevating and the trees growing larger. The forest was eerily quiet, save for the occasional call of woodland fowl.

  As they reached a clearing, they came upon a herd of elk nibbling on tall grass in the distance. The males’ antlers stretched longer than Malcolm’s great sword, and their tips looked just as sharp. One of the creatures noticed the party and made a guttural noise, alerting the others to the intruders. Soon the small herd scattered away back into the woods, the thump of their hooves vibrating the ground.

  The Southwoods’ elk did not compare to their cousins here, whose extreme habitat calls for a more robust physique. It was rumored that all the ’Vine’s fauna were built differently, stronger. Craggy terrain, copious slopes, ponderous woods, and a myriad of predators saw to that, influencing their evolution.

  Captain Halarn continued to lead the party up what seemed an interminable incline. The ground flattened just as Malcolm was about to call for a break, noticing the weariness on Ethlin’s and Orbist’s faces. He was grateful for the easier steps, as was everyone else. The breeze picked up, giving a welcomed cooling effect to their sweat glistened skin.

  The trees grew thicker and closer together, creating patches of shadow near their path, and Malcolm noticed Captain Halarn cast occasional wary glances from side to side, looking out into the distance. He stopped abruptly, holding up his arm in a signal to halt. He put his finger to his lips, listening. Malcolm heard it too. There were voices to their left.

  “We’ll have to veer east,” Captain Halarn whispered to Malcolm and his sergeants. “That’s where the rune trees are, but w
e have no other option. I don’t want to risk them hearing us. Malcolm, tell your party to be quiet and to stay away from the trees. You may not be able to see, but they’re marked by the witches. Sometimes the runes are covered in tar, so as to make us think they’re not there. Also, have everyone keep a close eye on me at all times. Understood?”

  Malcolm nodded and filled in his companions before following Halarn to the east where the ground began to decline. A couple of shouts and laughter echoed near. The party hastened their pace. As the land dipped, they tread cautiously to avoid slipping and landing on the jagged boulders riddling the ground.

  The voices eventually faded behind them, and Malcolm noticed some of the trees contained red and ochre runes in various shapes and symbols. He didn’t know what they meant, and he didn’t want to find out. Captain Halarn waved the party away from the marked pines to their left. They cut through ferns and bramble bushes amidst pines, cautious not to get too close.

  Malcolm heard a groan behind him that turned to a scream. Turning, he saw two guards and Artemis wrapped in branches and vines from a tree and the bushes attached to its base.

  “Help them!” Malcolm yelled, drawing his sword. Artemis futilely pulled his sword and hacked at the branches, but one of them wrapped an iron grip around his arm. One of the guards cried out as the bones of his back snapped, the force of the tree and bushes continuing to twist his body.

  Malcolm and the others slashed at branches and vines. He looked up, and the tree bent toward him, swinging a much larger branch at his head. He ducked, and it hit the guard next to him, sending him flying.

  An aperture materialized at the center of the tree, and it seemed to sigh, releasing a foul odor of decaying and rotting leaves. Suddenly, one of the guards in the tree’s grip was thrust in the opening. Malcolm saw him struggle, using his hands to brace himself, but the tree drove his head inside. The tree bark closed around the guard’s head while the branches pulled his body back, hurling it headless toward them. The body collided with its comrade’s shield, blood spewing down the white dove sigil.