Eulogy
Page 53
Wisk vanished. Like a leaf on a forest bed, he blended into the canvas. An outline remained, but it was shadowed and wavering, nothing more than a face reflected in a muddy pond.
"Tsk tsk," the assassin's shadow said. "Not today."
Gentahl!
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Something nudged Kipra's mind—a thread, a needle.
It wound deeper.
A hot, slimy hand jolted her awake. Definitely not Ark. She gripped it at the wrist and yanked, and a strangled scream erupted from beside the bed. She leapt to her feet, unconcerned with her nudity.
If someone hoped to kill her while she slept, they'd not find an easy target.
Abennak yelped and cringed, and she released him.
Congealed blood stained his armor, and a tidy slit had been stabbed into his neck. It barely bled, but it was wide enough for three fingers, deep enough for a turkey's leg.
Impossible! No one could've survived this.
The thread in her mind wiggled.
A thin trail of crimson stained the tiles from king to beyond the pavilion's flap, and his eyes were still maddened—maddened beyond all belief.
Wiggled. Yanked.
Two shortswords—her shortswords—rested on the tiles beside him. He swiped up the first to press it into her palm, then the second, and her golden fingers gently clinked as she curled them around the hilt.
He slumped, his gnarled face pressing into the bed.
Void take me, what happened to him?
Bloodied drool oozed from his lips. "Save or save him."
"Save who? What the bloody void do you—"
Blades clashed nearby, too close to have been from Farren's walls.
Kipra froze. How long had she slept? The light streaking through the pavilion indicated it wasn't yet full dawn. Why hadn't Ark awakened her when he'd returned to Farren?
Ark.
Two more blades clashed, and the roar of a thousand Parched Men followed.
Ark was in danger.
She donned a woolen tunic and leggings, strapped her blades to her belt, but left her leather breastplate on the floor. A curse blasted from her throat. It took too long to put on the damned armor. She'd need it, but not as much as Ark needed her.
"Wait," Abennak said, and his word gurgled.
She turned to the flap.
"Wait!"
"What, damn you?"
"Tell my brother I love and love him." His eyes clouded, muscles twitched, fingers clenched. "Tell him the armor can never crack, the steel is never marred, and the butterfly will flap and flutter. Until... until it dies. Give him this. Read and read the last line at the right moment."
He held out Sojourns from the Inner Empire, and she snatched it from him.
"We're all stories of ourselves," he whispered.
She left him there, not caring to ask when the right moment would be. The man was insane. The right moment might've been when his goat conquered the island.
Yet she took the book regardless.
Chaos reigned beyond Abennak's pavilion. Farren's gates opened wide, and its soldiers rushed forth—Gar Tsi and Yaron Kenn and Teel and Ogdhen leading them—to slam the back of Rippon's forces.
Fools!
Did they hope to defeat Rippon with three thousand? Unlikely. They must've hoped to save Ark. On the edge of Farren's walls, with their faces split in grim snarls, one hundred archers bent their bows and released a volley.
Another.
Yet they were too far from the fighting, and their arrows plunged into bloodless soil.
Gar Tsi tore a double-bladed axe through a man's shoulder, and Teel leapt forward to disembowel that same soldier. Yaron Kenn whipped a long staff across one man's face, and blood and flesh and yellowed teeth splattered. They fought with wild abandon and untethered rage, like a furious wolf.
They forced their way deep into Rippon's camp.
Deeper.
Rippon's soldiers rallied, and Farren's progress slowed.
One of Rippon's Parched soldiers thrust a wobbling longsword at Kipra, his armor loose over a scrawny chest, and she skipped to the side. She tore a single blade free of its scabbard, rammed it through his chest, ripped it out, and didn't pause to make sure of the kill. He crumpled.
She gazed across the battle.
Ark.
He had to be here, somewhere.
He had to—
"Don't let them reach us!" Kleni's voice rang out. "Crush them, crush them!"
There! Kipra sprinted, weaving through Rippon's soldiers like an insect between two deadly palms. Skip and twirl, angle and roll. Parched Ones were too slow, too clumsy and too foolish to touch her.
A canvas wall rose above the fighting armies, and Kleni paced a tight line at its base. For once she'd discarded her gossamer clothes, and she now wore brown leather armor studded with iron rivets, and two daggers jutted from her belt.
Lerrin's song ended, and he began anew.
Villeen also stood at the wall, her face strangely serene, like a flower awaiting the sun. A tiny smile tweaked her lips upward, and she simply stared at the canvas. Waiting.
Burn!
Kleni turned to Kipra and shouted, "Stop her!"
Parched Ones tried.
Kipra ignored her sister, ignored the tattooed woman, and she didn't bother to acknowledge the soldiers. They'd die. They'd all die.
Ark!
She burst through the ranks of Parched Ones, hacking and slashing. The copper-laden scent of Parched blood clung to her tunic.
One slice parted the canvas.
Parched Ones bunched at her back, ready to spring forward.
Kleni's voice stopped them. "Let her inside. The assassin will deal with both."
No!
Not unless he cared to carve Kipra into bits, first.
He probably did.
Chapter Eighty-Eight
A third gash of fire seared Irreor's arm.
-Kill!-
He leaned to the side, beyond the reach of a second attack, but a shadowed boot struck him above the knee. The assassin was too fast, too skilled. Added to that, Wisk was wrapped in gentahl, impossible to see. Irreor's face met ground—so gritty and dusty, smelling of grass—and he rolled away from a hurled knife.
Kleni's voice pierced the canvas. "The assassin will deal with both of them."
Both of them.
Kipra!
-They whipped and cut me, and I'll kill them.-
Leave her alone!
Irreor lurched to his feet, one eye to the shadowy assassin, the other to Kipra as she stepped through a tear in the canvas. One blade was clenched in her eager fist, and in the other she held a book. She flung it to the dirt at Irreor's feet, then slid her second blade free.
Sojourns from the Inner Empire.
Why was that important?
Wisk paused as if considering this new threat. His shadowed, wavering blades angled to the side, and he shifted to face both Irreor and Kipra.
-Which one first? The pretty? The ugly?-
Void take you!
They remained motionless for a long moment, seconds ticking away, Kipra eyeing Irreor and Irreor fighting the child as it again reached for a thread of gentahl. It groped for the power as if it were a branch amongst quicksand.
And the assassin?
He struck.
Like lightning on a cloudy night—sharp, sudden, without a clear direction—his outline lashed at Kipra. She flung one sword wide, tucked the other close to her body, and spun to deflect the assassin's blades.
-Kill, kill, kill!-
Irreor unleashed a keening moan, withholding gentahl from the child. He couldn't let it use the power, not with Kipra so close. It would kill her. It would kill everyone. He stumbled forward, weapons quivering, legs and arms thick and cumbersome as a length of wet rope.
Hesitation.
A crimson line stained Kipra's cheek, impossibly fast, and a drop of blood fell from her chin. She growled and whipped both blades fro
m shoulder to knee, like a lumberjack against a massive oak. They met only air.
She stumbled.
The assassin chuckled—mocking, enjoying.
-We'll hack off her fingers, take her eyes.-
Void take me, you won't!
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Kipra pivoted away from another attack, desperate to reach Irreor. He'd slumped to one knee, clutching his temples with one hand, unleashing tiny, whimpering moans. He ran his fingers across the cover of Sojourns from the Inner Empire.
Slowly. Oh so slowly.
"Get up!" she screamed.
He didn't. Maybe couldn't.
Kipra cursed herself. She never should've brought the book. Why had she? Ah yes, because she'd placed trust in a Mad King. Brilliant. And now it was too late. Irreor was lost to madness.
I never should've trusted Abennak!
She launched a flurry of attacks at the assassin, placing each step to bring her closer to Irreor. High and low, left and right, her blades sparked from a quicksilver shadow with each swing and thrust. Her arms were tiring, her wounded cheek ached, and sweat drenched her woolen tunic.
She pressed on. The assassin's blade skipped from her golden fingers.
"Now he'll die," he rasped.
"Not before me," she countered.
He chuckled.
High and low, left and right.
Backpedaled.
Pivoted.
Sidestepped to place a golden-fingered hand on Irreor's shoulder.
"Get up!" she hissed.
The assassin lanced a shadowed blade toward her gut. He was faster than a normal man, even faster than Ark. She felt the attack more than saw it, and she ripped a shortsword down to block. Steel clanged, sharp and vibrant and true—Bran Stonehand's best blade against whatever worthless steel this man used—and the assassin's sword fragmented.
A shard of metal tore through Kipra's arm. Fresh blood splattered the book's cover.
Irreor groaned at her side, and something nuzzled her thoughts.
The ground rocked.
Dirt swallowed Wisk's feet. It gobbled his ankles, then his knees, and he sank into it as if it were a massive pool of porridge. The assassin struggled, but every motion drew him deeper, refusing to release him.
Now!
And still the ground rocked.
Kipra lunged forward and tore her shortsword across Wisk's neck. His shadowed head rolled, followed by the creak of his armor as his torso slumped. Unbending knees held it at an angle.
Yes!
She'd half-expected the assassin's illusion to disappear and reveal his ancient, wizened face, but it remained firm, leaving her to guess at his horrified expression—disbelieving eyes, mouth opened in an eternal scream.
Perfect.
Now they could escape.
She would let Ark take her to the cabin nestled in the Dull Crest Mountains. They'd fight his madness together, and they'd live their lives. It would have a fireplace, smelling of hickory and oak and bacon. They’d bring in vegetables from the garden, tasting of squash and onion and potato. And there’d be a goat, tasting of goat.
Everyone would live their lives, and—
If only it would've ended there.
Dirt and pebble and grass trembled again, shaking with enough intensity to knock her from her feet. She scrambled to Ark's side. His eyes were vacant, his face clammy to the touch. Moisture wetted his lips. It beaded and oozed and dripped from his chin.
Drip.
"Ark!"
"Kill, kill, kill," he mumbled.
Pebbles rose from the ground, lifted by some invisible hand. They whirled faster and faster around Kipra and Ark, like a miniature tornado, but they neither touched nor harmed the two within. They tore outward, and Rippon's heavy canvas was nothing more than a thin leaf of parchment.
They shredded it.
If only it would've ended....
Rippon's and Farren's war continued. Pernik and his men were surrounded on all sides, and they fought with desperation. Crimson painted their armor. Notches covered their blades and spears, and some Parched soldiers fought with daggers alone.
The old officer surged forward as the canvas fell. A blade took him high in the shoulder, and he hacked off the owner's arm.
Surged forward.
Far, far beyond him, Gar Tsi and Teel and Yaron Kenn still fought. Their forces were more disciplined. They'd been able to act with more planning and forethought than Pernik, and they'd driven a wide wedge into Rippon's forces.
Lerrin's song lilted through the air, and its terrified notes matched that of the battle.
"Take the spears, ram them into their throats!" Kleni screamed.
She stood on the other side of where the canvas once was, and she turned as the barrier disappeared. Her jaw drooped at the sight of the assassin's bent, shadowed body. His severed head rested at the base of his half-buried torso.
"No," she mouthed.
Kleni's gaze shifted to the side, to Irreor and Kipra, and rage twisted her features.
"Damn you!" she screamed. "You void-splattered bitch, I swear I'll—"
Her head exploded.
Brain and skull and blood showered Kipra. The hotness of it, the wetness, the sharpness, the scent. She gagged, and bile—tasting of acid and chicken and pig—washed her tongue. She spat it to the ground, but another mouthful replaced it.
Her sister was dead.
Lerrin's song faltered and died. The musician stared numbly at his violin, then knelt at his mistress's side. No words were spoken. No tears fell. With trembling fingers, he dropped the violin and took up Kleni's dagger. He sliced one wrist.
Blood pooled.
Kleni was dead.
Part of Kipra wanted to scream in anger, part of her in disgust, part in happiness.
If only it would've....
Ark shrieked. Like a heat shimmer from a hot rock, a circle expanded from him, wider and wider, until it touched the first soldier. Like Kleni, that man's head exploded. His body was crushed, and intestine and kidney and heart squeezed from shattered ribs.
It continued.
For every two of three Parched Men the wave touched, it destroyed them. Parched flesh was torn to shreds. Parched screams rose high, until they must've touched Farren's battlements. Rank after rank were crushed, and it didn't matter which side they fought for. They died. Farren and Rippon suffered alike, and their battle cries shifted to terror.
Stark, bloody terror.
And Ark shrieked.
Void take me, it's him. He's doing this.
Kipra touched his arm, and he trembled as skin met skin. His eyes were vacant, yet his cheek twitched and twitched. Yes, he was doing this. She knew it in her heart. All the pain and sadness and terror, he'd forged it all. Bran's death, her bitterness against her mother and sister. Everything. For that, he should be punished. Maybe Villeen had been right.
Yet in that single moment, it didn't matter.
Not a single bit.
She brushed the hair from his forehead and kissed it. She murmured to him, told him how she loved him. She kissed his cheek, his ear, his brow. With each kiss, another hundred died. With each murmur, another hundred screamed.
It wasn't working.
If only it....
"Please Irreor," she whispered, and she pressed her cheek against his, gazing out across the battlefield. "Let it go. Whatever hurt you, just let it go. Please don't do this."
But he did do it, and another life was crushed.
Pernik opened his mouth as the shimmering wave touched him. To scream? To smile? It happened too fast. His windpipe was crushed beneath an invisible force, and his eyes bulged. Then Ark's genthal took him, and only a stain remained.
"They'll stand amongst the corpses of the beloved," Ark mumbled. "Kill and kill."
"Damn you," she said, and her voice cracked as she continued. "What do you need!"
His gaze flicked to the book.
'Read the last line,' the king had said. 'D
o it at the right moment.'
Was now the right time?
"Demon-damn," she snarled, and she snatched up the book.
If only....
She flipped to the last page and read it in a weak, uncertain tone. "'And all things come to an end. End and finish and complete. They all vanish. A kiss unfelt, a hug unremembered. Yet we do remember, don't we?'"
Her last five words were barely spoken. "'Ah yes, we always do.'"
Her fingers numb, she dropped the book.
Ark groaned, and he reached for Kipra's shortsword. Why did she let him?
Still nothing lived in his eyes, and drool still slid from his mouth, but he curled his fingers around the blade's hilt. He drew it close, reversed his grip, and drove it into his stomach. Its point dug deep, its sharpened edges tearing a precise hole.
He twisted it.
"No!" Kipra shouted.
Far in the distance, a child screamed.
Understanding flickered in Ark's gaze, slowly, like the first spark of a newly laid blaze. It grew. Parched Men still died on the battlefield. The shimmering wave still expanded, but it was slower, without the fury it once contained. Now people simply died. No explosions, no blood or guts or bones—they simply flopped to the dirt.
"Kill me," Ark whispered, and red saliva bubbled on his lips. "Can't do it myself."
"No," Kipra said, and she jerked her head to the side. "I won't!"
Silence.
"You must," Ark replied, his face a mask of pain. "I can't hold him, and he won't let me kill myself. Won't let or let or let! He'll end it all, Kipra, and nothing will stop him. Please, for the love you held for Bran, the love you hold for me, for any other shred of love you may know—kill me!"
"Do it!" Villeen shouted.
Kipra pivoted to the tattooed woman. Villeen leaned against one of the wooden poles. Her robes were in tatters, and pale flesh peeked from beneath brown fabric. She tossed a knife to Kipra's feet.
Vengeance.
The woman wanted it, just as Kipra had craved it her entire life. But now Kipra knew vengeance. She'd felt it splatter her cheeks, tasted its rise from her gut. Her sister's headless body was vengeance, and it was a bitter solution indeed.