by Kari Cordis
It was still no brisk gallop, their trip. She tired easily, and Kai and Cerise both would not have her pushed. A half-dozen cyclones rode as escort, though, and their jubilant company—in high spirits with all the promising activity in the future—was so bolstering, so reminiscent of that other journey she’d made before the world had turned to fire and blood around her, that it was almost as restorative as the week of sleep in the Ramparts.
But now, it had come to this. They had passed through the glare of the Eshaid desert (rather gentle-seeming now) and into the looming grey of featureless winter in the southern Empire. The Daroe had come far too soon, because now her eagerness to see Kyr had been tinged with doubt. No one knew better than she the demands rulership could place on one…but had he not wanted to come to her in the west? He was the Rach; he could do anything he wanted and his people would adore him. It was only a few days’ hard ride from the Hilt to the far western Wing…which was all foolishness and she knew it. He had sent messages, the situation and the crisis ahead of them had been updated daily by Qarasca; there was no time for him to come to her.
But, woman-like, she worried.
So, now they were riding down the long, cheering aisles of Northern soldiers and the meeting loomed ahead of her laced with dread instead of pleasure. They had taken the long way in, for it was easier along the flanks of the Dragonspine than out in the middle of the Eshaid, and so the Aerach Wings were all there before them, though they’d left after. Somewhere in the thousands of massed soldiers from every Realm on earth…was her beloved. And what if he would not see her? What if there were nothing but excuses and cool, formal phrases between them now? She had been the cause of death of a whole cyclone of men, possibly by now to include his best friend and most-valued Shagreen—for mere selfish pleasure.
Agitatedly, her hands twisted the reins, the magnitude of her misdeeds suddenly a crushing weight. It was one thing to ask forgiveness from Il, who would never deny her and had obviously used the whole escapade for vastly important purposes…but it was another thing to ask it of a man, even one as honorable as Kyr.
And then she picked him suddenly out of the crowd. It was a good thing she was on horseback or she would probably have stopped all forward motion and just stood there like an imbecile. He was handsomer than she remembered, a glowing beauty around the molten bronze of his animated features, a heart-wrenching power to the set of his strong shoulders, and those eyes, those piercing eyes…but there was a look on his face she had never seen. Unthinking, she dismounted, absently handing the reins to Cerise, eyes fixed on that dear face as he strode closer and closer in that ground-eating walk of his. His face was stormy, caught up in such a passion she couldn’t begin to place it. Was it, could it be…angry?
That thought just about undid all her careful attentions to the royal façade. After all she’d been through, all the terrors and worries and guilt and aching for his love, to come now to face him without hope of it lifting…She almost stumbled as she went to meet him, though he was rushing toward her so quickly she didn’t have far to go.
“How can you forgive me…?” she managed brokenly before he swept her into his strong arms and crushed her with aching gentleness against him, his lips sealing hers in such feeling that she soon forgot her pain, forgot her doubts, forgot everything but that he was hers, that it was all over, and that she would love him forever.
Which made quite a scene for the locals.
Time flew and it dragged, nervous expectation running like a current through the soldiers and officers and Knights and Sentinels and Rach that waited breathlessly on the edge of the Empire. Androssan, standing with stoic, compassionate respect to receive the Rach families as they came over the Terring Bridge, was awash with it despite his grave face.
A half rill of Aerach horse had left that morning in a burst of restless energy disguised as a scout mission, Kyr—as forecasted by Lt. Waylan—personally at their head. The rest of the thousands of desert cavalry were spread out on the opposite side of the river, horses grazing in a colorful string as far as the eye could see along the river bank. That, too, had been Waylan’s suggestion, keeping the river between the two peoples. Not only would it keep the two herds of horses separate (Imperial Cav were a territorial lot), but it made a handy buffer between the two cultures. Here and there along the Daroe, staked like road signs of the exotic, were the standards of the Rach. Long, slender wood poles, still with the knots and gnarls of the trees they had come from but polished from centuries of oiling and use, they had the longest, narrowest guidons he’d ever seen—more like streamers than flags.
Before he’d left, Kyr had spoken to the General about his noncombatants. The Ramparts had been emptied but for a few volunteers…and they now needed somewhere besides the front lines to set up a refugee camp. Androssan had offered the Winnowing Hills, so now what basically constituted the entire Aerach civilization was filing by into the Empire and safety.
He nodded his head as each person passed, or murmured a word of bracing sympathy, the understanding warleader bowing to the hardships of those caught up indirectly in the trauma of war…but, frankly, he was beginning to feel a bit silly.
The Rachina had been killed in action several years ago, along with Rach Kyr’s young sons, but Kyr’s mother had led the narrow file over the bridge. She had sunk gracefully to a knee, taking his hand—both embarrassing and strangely affecting, for she was a gorgeous woman only a little younger than the General. The entire procession had mimicked her actions to the tee, smiling graciously, the narrow, golden brown Rach face a thing of stirring beauty on their women. None of them seemed particularly upset; there wasn’t a single sad countenance that had passed him yet. They had long, swinging strides of lilting energy, these homeless and displaced, eyes of black or brown sparkling with life. Children clearly enchanted with Imperial mud trotted happily between their long legs and the careful ones of the loaded horses at their sides, or sat quietly in their mother’s arms (some of whom looked barely older than his own daughter). So far, he hadn’t seen a single male over the age of eight or nine, not even the bent, wizened type. There were loads of dogs—the muscled, thin-skinned sighthounds of the desert—some birds, cages valiantly covered as if that would ward off the winter damp and chill, and the general air of life and motion that you would normally associate more with a traveling circus. You would not have been able to tell from a casual glance that these people had lost everything permanent in their lives, were strangers in a far distant land, and were fleeing to safety while their menfolk fought in the battle of the Ages.
The plan had been to spread them out through the Hills around the town of Eldoreth, a humble claimant for the title as it was barely more than a site for grain storage and transfer. That was also where the Council would retire (he hoped) once the Enemy was actually engaged, and where Sable had finally, after fierce objection, been convinced to join them. His Queen was much changed, he thought idly, trying to stifle a smile as a little girl of about six took his hand. Her eyes lit up as if he was the best Winterfest gift ever.
He’d heard about the greeting with Kyr, of course—soldiers loved any gossip that involved physical contact between men and women—and had frowned heavily. That’s what came of letting all these young monarchs run around the Realms meeting each other. But it was more than a little youthful infatuation that had matured her face. Her pretty blue eyes had had steel before, but now held an odd, deep-seated confidence, an adamantine sort of gentleness that was completely alien to the North. She had told him, in detail, the tactical part of what had passed since they’d last spoken, and he her, but there were personal things (obviously) that she’d left unapologetically out. And she had refused implacably his request to leave camp. Acquiescence had come, apparently, only after she’d spoken later with the Rach.
Spere sidled up to him, speaking low in the off ear. He could listen easily; the Aerach women, completely denying the rights of femininity, displacement, and helplessness, said hardly a word
. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise him if Spere wanted a closer look at all that glowing, healthy, attractive womanhood. He certainly didn’t have earth-shattering news.
“I think you should know, Sir,” he began, pausing as a particularly throat-closing young woman smiled frankly up at them. “Uh, I think you should hear this…” he stalled out again, distracted.
“Get on with it, Sergeant,” Androssan said patiently, hoping his pocked, half-bald, right-hand man wouldn’t start smiling at them. That’d scare those smiles right off their pretty faces.
“Right. Well, I just came from up the road and saw something you’re not going to believe…”
“I’m waiting.”
“YES. Yes. You know how we were worried about those deer from Cyrrh not being the best thing to try and torching ride into battle? Well, I came out of the Foxlord’s tent and found my eyeballs on a scene right out of a quart of gin. Here was one of those big flaming deer, a burning buck with a set of burning antlers you could fit two of these women in, staring down one of the Ram’s Warwolves. Not one torching sign of fear, Sir.”
Androssan spared him a glance. He was a little worried about how his collection of exotic wildlife was going to survive each other long enough to reach the battlefield, crowded together as they were in camp.
“Sir, that buck torching lowered his antlers and burning moved that wolf right off the road. Backed him the ash right up—wolf as big as he was, almost. I was standing there with my mouth open and the Foxlord laughed and said ‘they aren’t afraid of too much outside of Cyrrh. The only time you’ll have to worry about them bolting is with the dragons, and no animal will stand then.’ Ash, it was like he’d been reading our minds.”
Androssan looked at him thoughtfully. That was very interesting, for several reasons. Glad as he was to hear of the probability of peaceful camp coexistence…he now had a new worry. What was he going to do when the whole right wing folded in front of a dragon assault? In fact, what was he going to do about a dragon assault, period?
It took all day for the thousands of Aerach refugees to file cheerfully over the bridge, even though there were three more in usage upstream and another downstream, all day that Androssan had to stare out over the bleak coming battlefield to the south. Secretly, he wished with all his heart that he’d been able to accompany Rach Kyr. Inactivity was a torture matched only by lack of intel, and to be able to be out there, out front, to know when and where and how many the Enemy were…he’d give up a whole week of Aerach beauties for that.
Kyr scanned the empty plains south of the Daroe with an eye so used to the activity that it was literally an unconscious act. Every Rach did it without thinking, everywhere, regardless of what they were doing. And here, there was none of the fierce glare off the Sheel, a luxury they usually only had during the few cloudy weeks of the rainy season.
His busy mind raced here and there, aware of every move, every jangling bit, every hoof thud of the quiet men around him. The air was heavy in the Empire, rank now with the smell of mud, and his nostrils flared in the attempt to get beyond the clogging scent. The wind was at their back and would carry news of their presence straight to the Tarq, but it couldn’t be helped. It wasn’t like they weren’t expecting the Rach to be ahead of them somewhere, anyway.
He was planning strategies, weighing the leaders and men of the Realms behind him, considering the Tarq ahead of them. Raemon was dead, was he? Weakened at least? Out of the picture, Traive and Banion had thought. He doubted that would change the Enemy’s fighting style much…but it certainly might change the outcome of battle. All of those that fought them knew of that odd, disassociated look that some of the Tarq carried in their blank, brilliant eyes. And he was not the only one who thought it numbed them from the instinctive self-protection of a normal warrior. Sometimes they didn’t even try and defend themselves, and if that was gone…
How wide a front would they adopt? Kinn was right—their numbers were going to be immense, but it would be better for the morale of the North if they didn’t stretch from horizon to horizon. That was another reason the Aerach front line needed to lie just forward of the North’s. Not only would it prevent the Tarq from having a chance to regroup, which they would if they destroyed the Rach at the Ramparts, but it would give the unseasoned Imperials a chance to get used to the idea of what they were about to face. Those few moments of shocked inaction could be deadly to the first line.
Kinn…his mind lingered briefly on that unprecedented visit. A Dra had not been in the Ramparts since Keiryn and Kormaine parted the Band and the one Became Outcast forever. It made Kai unique among the Drae of history, bold and unconventional and fearless of the past, to send him, and Kyr grinned in savage approval. These were not the times for simpering, timid men.
But…the arrival of the Dra, in the deep of night, brought back that other memory, too…that visit that had changed a hundred things.
He had awoken suddenly, from instinct and with the wariness of men who never sleep deeply for fear they will never awake. There had been no sound, only the ghostly image, outlined by the moonlight glimmering through his open window. Her long hair had blown slightly in the night breeze, her Aerach shift outlining with breathless beauty the figure of a woman.
He had known it was no mortal woman, though, as soon as she’d spoken.
“Thy path is girt with great adversity, Rach,” she’d said, and his breath had caught in his throat. He’d slipped instantly out of bed, the coolness of the flagstones seeping through his leathers as he knelt.
“Sword,” he breathed reverently.
“Rise,” she’d said, the hint of a frown in the rich voice. “There is only One to whom thou shouldst kneel. I am but a woman.”
“Nay, Sword, you do not come to me as a woman, but as a messenger of His. To that I bend my knee.” But he had dared to look up at her, and in the ghostly light saw that it was she, the only Rach amongst all the Swords, the Tendress herself.
“Then hearken closely, for much is asked of thee.”
“Anything, to my very people, is yours,” he’d said, still stunned at the magnitude of the honor being paid him.
“It is to thy people that thou must cling,” she’d said soberly, obscurely.
Confused, he’d answered slowly, “Surely you do not doubt my allegiance to my people? I would never leave them.”
“Heard and witnessed,” she’d said gravely. “Thou must be with the force of the Wings in the long days to come, for thy heart is their heart, thy blood their own, and nothing must sway thee from thy place at their head.”
He’d lain awake in consternation for hours after she’d gone, the room full of her mystical scent and the silver rays of the watching moon. Did she doubt his courage, his resolve, his devotion to his people? Was she sent to strengthen him? What lay ahead that was such a trial? That would warrant such a visit as had not occurred in generations beyond telling? A Sword of Light!
And then, he’d barely gotten to sleep when he was being woken with the dreadful, gut-wrenching news that she’d been taken. That his heart had been torn from him—not heading back to safety in her icy Empire, as he knew she eventually must, but snatched by the foul hands of the Tarq.
And he, he was trapped. Trapped by an oath as binding as honor, imprisoned behind the sandstone bars of the Hilt while the fairest, finest, most precious thing in the world to him was submitted to the fetid filth of Raemon’s scourge.
Suddenly, his torturous memories were brushed aside, mind instantly back in the present. His hand snapped up and he felt the rush of air as his standard dipped in such quick response to his command that it looked as if both had happened simultaneously. There was a whoosh of sound and air as fifty cyclones softly hit the dirt in unison, the men pulling the horses down beside them, then nothing. There was no sound. Far overhead the faint outline of an eagle could be seen soaring on the hunt, but otherwise the world seemed emptied of motion.
Kyr set off on his belly for the nearest rise of ground s
everal yards away, hearing the faint scurrying of his ’Tip close behind him. They arranged themselves behind the mound, Kyr reaching back for the looking glass tube. Kurim’s eyes were so alight with suppressed excitement that Kyr grinned at him and ruffled the short-cropped black hair. He knew just how the boy felt; how Il loved them, that they should be alive at such a time as this!
His eye had caught the dark blur of movement far out on the horizon, arrested more by the wrongness of its being there than any recognition of its source. Now, with the glass, he confirmed by sight what his instincts had already told him. It was fairly effortless; they weren’t making labored efforts at secrecy—would have been a waste of time anyway with nothing but broad, windswept plains to hide that massive swarm of men in. He would have preferred a good couple hours’ worth of observation, but that pleasure would have to wait. In a scant few minutes, he was running, crouched, back to the men and horses, signaling them up as he ran. He sprang on Inferno as the horse was half risen, so that it looked like they rose together from the muddy ground. The men parted behind him and he sent the stallion down through the utterly silent ranks, urging him into a ground-eating canter that would halve their return time to a day or so.
Still, he sent bright-eyed Kurim on ahead. The Northerners would need all the time they could get. The Tarq had not been far behind them, he brooded as he rode, the thundering of hooves in the muting mud sounding out a thudding rhythm to his thoughts. Barely in time had they left the Ramparts; everything seemed to have happened barely in time…a wondrous coincidence if you believed in nothing but chance.