It was a beautiful dream.
Instead, he had this. War and death and destruction, all because the Aryllias had refused to play their roles.
He kicked a stray stone aside as he picked his way through the rubble of the Queensgate. Add this to Greenwall and I’ll spend half my reign just rebuilding walls.
A circle of personal guardsmen and retainers and standard bearers surrounded Lenoden, picking their way over debris-strewn ground. At his right hand walked Cer Horte, waiting for his next order, and to his left, Auren stepped through the field of wreckage more gracefully than most of the men who could see.
His vanguard was already arranged in ranks just ahead of him at the edge of the farming flats; the main body of his force was still falling into position. Behind him, the last of his companies was just beginning to file through the great opening in the wall, leaving only the rear guard on the road below. Across the plateau, the scattered remnants of Josen’s forces milled about in confusion. The final onslaught through the shattered wall had sent them running, and though the Deeplings were fleeing from the sunrise now, the survivors hadn’t yet fully regrouped.
Lenoden glanced at his adjutant. “Cer Horte. Signal a double march for the rear guard. I want everyone through the gate and in proper ranks before our enemies can put together a new line of defense.”
Horte raised his horn to his lips and sounded the signal; a moment later, several answering horns indicated it had been received.
Auren sidled closer while the signals were exchanged. “The Plateaus, as promised. I hope you are satisfied, Duke Castar.”
Lenoden lifted an arm to shield his eyes from the sun rising over the Godspire, and looked across the farming flats. The damage the Deeplings had done was immediately evident; their paths traced through the lower fields in broad furrows where the crops had been trampled and the soil upturned. A few of the creatures were still moving across the flats, fleeing towards the cliffs to find refuge from the sun.
“Satisfied?” He scowled at the old man. “I will be satisfied when I sit on the Throne of Air. Right now all I see is the damage these monsters have done to fields that still have to feed the Peaks when this is over.”
The corner of Auren’s mouth lifted slightly; he showed no sign of remorse. “And yet here we stand, beyond a gate that has never before been breached. Nothing comes without a cost, Your Grace.”
“You had best hope that I get what I’ve paid for, then, or you’ll answer for it,” said Lenoden. He picked up his pace, striding ahead of the old man. Auren made no effort to catch him, but Cer Horte and the rest of the guardsmen and retainers hurried to keep up.
When he neared the center of his forces, Lenoden raised his voice, and bellowed, “Hear me!” At his gesture, Horte lifted his horn and signalled for attention.
On all sides, his men turned toward Lenoden.
“Look around you,” he said, clear and strong and loud, “and see what the sins of the Aryllias have brought upon this place!” He gestured toward the ruin of the wall, and then swept his hand across to the fields on the opposite side, torn and trampled by Deeplings. Let them see themselves as saviors. True enough, even if the reasons are more complicated than they know. “It is no coincidence that only now, in these dark times, the Deeplings have found their way to the very heart of the Nine Peaks! Josen Aryllia has stolen the last Windwalker away from his rightful place at my side. He has refused my every overture of diplomacy, choosing instead to treat with swamplings. He went whimpering to our oldest enemy, and all around us, you see how they answer such weakness: by sending their pets against him! He has turned from the Convocation and the protection of the Sky God, and now his people pay the consequences!”
He paused a moment, there, to let the men shout their support or jeer and curse Josen’s name. They didn’t disappoint.
“The very wings of the divine that he has forsaken now enfold us,” Lenoden went on when the noise had lessened. “Many of you saw as much for yourselves only yesterday. The Wind of Grace turned aside a hundred quarrels that would surely have ended my life, and the lives of too many good men. And just as those quarrels could not touch us, no army can defeat us, because the Lord of Eagles has judged our cause and found it just! In the Sky God’s name, we have been called to put an end to the horrors we have seen here today! So I ask you this: Will you fight for the people of the Plateaus? Will you fight to free them from a king and a bloodline that have fallen to corruption? Will you fight for the future of the Nine Peaks?”
Thousands of voices raised to answer him. “For the Nine Peaks!” they cried, and “For King Lenoden! The Windwalker’s chosen!” and “Death to the Swampling King!”
“Then let us show them the strength of righteous men!” Lenoden cried out. “Weapons at the ready! Front lines, move to engage on my order!” Horte’s horn repeated his command in ciphered blasts for those too far away to hear.
But Horte’s wasn’t the only horn he heard. From farther down the Queensmount, someone else was sounding a signal.
“What is that?” Lenoden demanded in a low voice. He knew the horn ciphers well enough, but he didn’t bother to work it through. As an adjutant, Horte was of middling competence, but the man was good with signals—he’d have it already. He was useful for that, at least.
“The rear guard, Your Grace.” Horte licked his lips and swallowed. “I … I think… that is, they say…”
“Out with it!” But Lenoden already knew by the stammering that it wasn’t anything good.
“There’s… there’s someone coming up the road.”
“Who?” Lenoden demanded, already turning back toward the Queensgate. This wasn’t right—he had sacrificed too much already to risk an attack from behind with victory so near.
“I don’t know,” Horte said. “They haven’t identified themselves.”
Lenoden didn’t hesitate, just started back the way he’d come. “Horte, with me. Signal a hold on the advance until we know more.” He picked up his pace, half-running back through the ruin of the wall. Behind him, he heard Horte’s horn, and then the sound of the man jogging to keep up, all heavy footfalls and heavier breath.
From the edge of the cliff at the mouth of the road, where the wall had crumbled away, Lenoden could see the unidentified army moving up the mountain. It was hard to get a solid count of their number, stretched down the road as they were, but they had to be at least four thousand strong—close to his own numbers. They covered the ground quickly, a double-march or faster, climbing the switchbacks toward his rear guard.
A vanguard of knights in mail and stormcloud-grey tabards led the way, followed by thousands of armed men, stretching back into the mist. Every one of them wore a hood pulled low. The shadow of the cliff still sheltered them from the sun, and he couldn’t make out a single face. What is this? What are they hiding? They can’t be Terene men—Whitelake is too far. The only place he could imagine they might have come from was the Wolfshead, but they didn’t wear the Theos’ colors. And if they were from the Wolfshead, they could be for either side. Felbard Theo was family to the Aryllias by marriage, but his daughter would have been queen if not for Josen’s interference.
“Horte, signal them,” he said. “Use a common cipher. They need to identify themselves and their allegiance immediately.”
Horte raised his horn and sounded a pattern of varying blasts. Staring down at the newcomers from the edge of the cliff, Lenoden waited for an answer.
None came.
Lenoden waited for a time, hoping the signal might still come, but these strangers were covering ground too quickly. If they were an enemy, they would be engaging all too soon, and they had at least as many men as he did. He didn’t want to believe it, but he could see no reason why an allied force would refuse to identify themselves, or wear those hoods. And there was something else, too, a nagging feeling he couldn’t quite place. Something is very wrong here.
“Sound an alert. I want the men ready to engage on my command.”
Horte did as he was told, and looked to Lenoden for further instruction.
“Signal the strangers again. Tell them to halt and tell us who they are, or we will treat them as an enemy. This is their last chance.”
Another call went out from Horte’s horn.
Again, the hooded men didn’t answer, just kept coming in silence.
Silence. That was the thing that he hadn’t been able to identify. These men were far too silent. An army on the march should have been louder, should have had heavier footsteps, noisier arms and armor, more voices echoing up the mountainside. This was more like watching the Deeplings climb the path—the same ghostly, terrifying quiet.
Ice spread through Lenoden’s chest. It can’t be.
He opened his mouth to shout a warning, but another sound cut him off. A horn, from below.
As the faceless army closed the final yards that separated them from his rear guard, they gave their answer at last.
Josen
Josen fled into the farming flats, limping across a tilled field of fallow soil. His wounded leg meant he couldn’t cover ground very quickly, but moving slowly was better than standing still. In his left fist, he clutched Aryllia’s Crown to his breast, so that it couldn’t be seen from behind. He didn’t know the exact accurate range of a wingbow, but he didn’t feel very much like being shot in the back, and the crown would only make him a target now.
He wasn’t the only one moving across the trampled farmland. Now that the Deeplings had gone, men were joining together in scattered groups, and those groups were beginning to flow into larger ones. And somewhere among those men, Josen knew, his brother was blending in among a hundred other knights, waiting for a chance to die fighting.
He wouldn’t have to wait for very long.
The blasts of horns rang intermittently across the plateau—Castar readying his assault, or whoever was left in charge of Josen’s forces trying to pull together a defense. Behind him, he could hear the distant, indecipherable sound of a raised voice, probably Castar’s, presumably exhorting his men to fight for truth or justice or faith or whatever other cause they might believe in. Soon, they would sweep over the remains of the Plateaus’ army, and it would be over.
Birds still circled overhead, crying out from far above. Josen had no idea how the birdkeeper’s apprentices would get them back in their cages; he supposed that was far from a priority, now. Good. They’ve earned their freedom. Let them fly far away from here.
Now and again he passed a corpse left behind by the Deeplings that had made it this far into the flats. One man had been cut nearly in two from one shoulder to the opposite hip, spilling blood and organs across the soil. Josen stumbled and retched at the sight, but nothing came up, and for the first time in hours he was glad that he hadn’t eaten for so long.
His leg trembled beneath him, threatened to buckle, but he took a deep breath and forced himself to keep moving. Putting distance between himself and Castar’s men was all he could think to do; he had no real idea of where he was going.
Someone has to be in command. Cer Falyn, if she’s still alive. Lord of Eagles, just let me find someone who knows what they’re doing. It was a sincere prayer. He’d started before the wall had broken, and he didn’t see any reason to stop now. He would have preferred to get an answer just a little bit earlier, while it could still have saved his brother, but divine intervention wouldn’t be any less welcome now that the situation was much, much worse.
But no miracles were forthcoming. Instead, a furrow in the soil caught his dragging foot, and he fell forward. He caught himself, barely, with his good arm, then lost his balance and collapsed the rest of the way onto his belly in the dirt. The crown of blue glass flew from his hand, rolled and bounced over the tilled earth, and came to rest a few feet away.
For a moment, Josen couldn’t see through the pain—he was only aware of the earthy smell of soil, the taste of it in his mouth. Something sharp was stabbing his thigh from within, and the knots along his left side felt strained close to snapping from the effort of arresting his fall. He tried to push himself up, and barely made it a foot off the ground before his leg failed him and he collapsed. It seemed pointless to try again, so instead he just lay there until the red cleared from his eyes, sucking in shallow, panting breaths. Rudol might have at least helped me get back. Damn him to the Deep, and his Storm Knight honor! God Above, why did I let him go?
And then, as his vision cleared, he noticed a glint of brightness, just in front of him. The rising sun struck Aryllia’s Crown where it lay in the soil, and the golden sunburst at its head flared with light. Instinctively, he reached out to take hold of it again, and as he did, a little eagle came to roost atop the blue glass, clutching it in one clawed foot.
“Goldeyes,” Josen said. Suddenly he remembered something—an eagle’s cry, a blur of brown and gold swooping at the rotborn that meant to kill him. “That was you, before, wasn’t it?”
Goldeyes only cocked his head, regarding Josen with unreadable golden eyes.
“There!” A voice from somewhere nearby. From where he lay, Josen couldn’t tell if it was friend or foe.
With a groan, he pushed himself partway up on his left arm, his wounded leg still splayed out behind him. His vision blurred with the effort, and he groped blindly for his witch saber with his right hand. The hooked end caught on his belt, but he managed to yank it clear. The blade wavered in his grip—even his good arm didn’t have much strength left. He almost laughed. I’m sure Castar’s men will be deeply intimidated.
Sword in hand, he twisted toward the voice.
The first thing he saw was near a dozen men in grey tabards, with blue slashed across the chest. That didn’t tell him much; Castar had Storm Knights too. As his blurred vision cleared, though, he saw that the blue wasn’t the sword of lightning that was their emblem, but sashes of Aryllian color. Knights of the Plateaus. He let his sword fall, as much out of exhaustion as relief.
“Josen!” A woman pushed past the knights and ran ahead to kneel beside him—it took a moment for her face to come into focus.
“Shona?”
There was no mistaking her now; he knew those sharp features, those keen brown eyes—even with dark crescents of weariness beneath them. She leaned over him with a worried frown. “Thank the Above.” She licked her thumb and wiped at the crust of blood spattered across the side of his face—the gesture felt out of place here, too maternal for a battlefield. “No one knew where you were. I thought…”
“That I was dead? Not yet.” He thought about telling her the truth: Rudol saved my life. And to thank him, I let him die. It was tempting, if only to share the weight of it. But if she knew, she wouldn’t let it be. And as much as he hated it, Josen meant to keep the last promise he’d made to his brother. I owe him that much. Instead, he offered her a forced grin, and said, “Ask me again after Castar takes the Plateaus.”
“Have I ever told you that you aren’t nearly as amusing as you think you are?” Shona probed his injured leg with one hand, and his grin flinched into a grimace.
“Ah! Careful!”
Her fingertips came away from his wound bloody; her eyes moved from her stained hand to the trail of red he’d left on the ground behind him. “We have to get you to a physician.”
“Some would call that putting off the inevitable,” said Josen, “but I’m not opposed. I just don’t think I can stand up again.”
The knights had drawn closer now, and Eroh peeked out from behind a line of grey tabards.
“I knew Goldeyes would find him,” Eroh said. Goldeyes hopped into the air to land on his shoulder, leaving Aryllia’s Crown in the dirt. “Is he… is he going to be alright?”
“Of course he is,” said Shona, a little bit too forcefully. “He just needs someone to see to this wound.” She picked up the crown of blue glass from where it had fallen, stood, and motioned to two of the knights. “Get him up.” Pointing at a bearded man with a horn slung at his side, she said, “Cer
Tiron, signal the other search parties that we’ve found what we were looking for. No details—Castar might be listening.”
Tiron sounded his signal, and the other two bent to lift Josen to his feet. The motion sent a shock of pain through his leg, and he let out another grunt.
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” one of the knights said, and started to lower him again.
“I’m fine,” Josen said through gritted teeth. “Keep going.”
They did as they were told. When he was upright, Josen put his weight on his good leg, and threw an arm over each man’s shoulders.
“Now,” he said. “I would love to be somewhere that isn’t directly between Castar’s army and ours. Where are we going?”
Shona pointed to a spot just off the road where a larger knot of men appeared to be gathering. She walked as she spoke, leading them farther into the flats. “I was bringing another load when the wall broke. There are supplies to treat the wounded in the wagon, so it seemed as good a place as any to gather the men. Cer Falyn is bringing the reserves together there, and whoever survived the wall.”
Josen limped along after her, suspended between the two knights. Horns were still sounding ahead, presumably Morne gathering her forces, and a single pattern came from Castar’s men behind. Josen didn’t understand any of the signals, so for the most part, he ignored the noise.
“Morne is alive too?” he asked. He’d hoped, but he hadn’t really believed that many could have survived the force that had shattered the wall. “Who else? Azra? Verik?”
“Both of them,” said Shona. “And several hundred more. We lost too many, but not as many as we should have.”
“What do you mean? How many should we have lost?” Josen glanced at Eroh; when the fissure opened in the wall, the swamplings had been on the same side of it as Morne. “How did you get away?”
“Verik,” Eroh said. “He held the stairs together long enough for a lot of people to get down. He even stopped some big rocks from falling on us.”
The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1) Page 86