by K.M. Weiland
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Allara’s world stopped in place. She stood atop the Karilus Wall and stared at the Aiden River, almost twenty leagues away. Columns of smoke tinged the horizon.
In the two days of rocking along the skycar tracks between Glen Arden and the Wall, she had kept her doubts to herself. They had known war was coming. They had known her father would be summoning Chris. Now that he’d done so, it meant nothing more or less than that. The sooner the battle was fought, the sooner it could be won.
But at every station, Quinnon had inquired for news of the battle, and at every station, the faces grew more somber. The armies had dug in between the Goraudian and Aiden Rivers. The battle everyone had believed would be over in days had stretched into weeks.
The country here was wild and barren, more stone than soil. The sheer gray lip of the cliff spread beyond sight in either direction. Behind them lay the Tosh Barrens, a rocky, heath-covered expanse, home only to ascetics and rock goats. Before them, the Karilus Wall sheered away, straight down into the sea of mist that camouflaged the fertile farm country watered by the Mistgloam River’s three tributaries: the Northfall, the Koraudian, and the Aiden. Only a narrow switchback, blasted into the cliff face, led down.
The wind shifted and carried to her ears the whispered thud of artillery, but it couldn’t keep pace with her heart. This was what she had fought all her life to prevent. And now here it was.
Quinnon led Rihawn over. “Stationmaster says the Koraudians hadn’t broken through last he knew. He also says the Wall trail should be clear all the way down. Same with the roads and fords between here and our lines, if luck’s with us.”
“Do you feel lucky?”
He handed her the reins and turned to mount his own horse.
She checked her girth and swung aboard. Behind her, a squad of Guardsmen mounted and formed up. Chris, on a dappled palomino, trotted over. She almost opened her mouth to say something, if only to have him say something back. She wanted reassurances.
But that was supposed to be her job, not his. And after days of conversations that included no more than a dozen syllables, the words didn’t find her tongue easily. This distance between them was of her own making, and she knew it. And loathed it.
He seemed to have accepted her reserve. He never questioned it, and part of her lamented it, for no good reason. If he had questioned her, she would just have pushed him even farther away.
Is this what her life had doomed her to? This inability to form normal relationships? Or was this what she doomed herself to? She made herself look away from him. Everything came at a price, including protection, for both of them.
He watched the horizon, and his face grew stern. “How far to the river?”
“It will take us the rest of the day.” The wind buffeted her, and she turned up the collar of her coat. “Two hours down the Wall, then perhaps another four to the river, if we push the horses all the way.”
“And when we get there?”
“God only knows.” Some hard and resolute angle in his face sparked a fearful thought. “But we’re not here to fight. You’re still not ready for that, and it’s not your responsibility anyway. You’re here to inspire the troops.” She watched him, willing him to look at her, and when he did, she willed him to nod, which he didn’t.
“Right.” He reined away to where Quinnon sat his horse at the edge of the Wall.
Quinnon waited for her, his good eye squinched tighter than usual. He hated heights, hated the Wall path. It was the only thing she’d ever known that could make him flinch. It could make him flinch, but he didn’t.
When she nodded, he straightened around in his saddle and nudged his horse forward. She followed, Chris behind her, and the Guardsmen behind him.
Down, down, the horses picked their careful way. Even Rihawn kept his head low and his footsteps careful. She gave him the bit and concentrated on keeping her weight centered and her body at an angle that matched the declivity.
The thud of a faraway explosion wafted across the leagues separating her from the Aiden River. Sweat burned around her collar. She shivered anyway. This was the sound of Lael at war. Mactalde had come, and now Lael had no choice but to fight. Somehow the thought of it lit her insides with fire. She had never engaged on a real battlefield or ridden at the front of a charge with sword raised. Never clashed against the enemy lines and screamed herself hoarse with wordless battle cries. She’d never been in battle or killed an enemy when her blood was raging.
And she wanted to.
The wind caught at her coat. She lifted her face to the rain. She wanted to fight until she died fighting. Perhaps there would be release in that. Release and honor and purpose, at last. Chris was right about her fear and her anger. They had fueled her for so long she’d almost forgotten how much she fed off their energy.
_________
The hours slipped past, with a stop every thirty minutes at the flat resting spots. The horses descended the path, nose to tail, and their hooves scattered pebbles down the face of the Wall. In front of them, all the way to forever, the tall gloamwheat of the flatlands glinted silver in the mist. Here and there, purple vinebuds studded the fields.
From behind her, a Guardsman called, “Look!”
Barely fifty spans to the south, a score of Cherazii galloped out of the trees bordering the Northfall River.
Her hand dropped to her estoc, strapped atop her rifle scabbard. Few Cherazii would dare harm a Searcher, but they held no great love for her these days. “Quinnon.”
“I see ’em. It’s not an attack party. They’ve got women and children with them.”
“Why would Cherazii ride this far out of the hills?”
He slipped his heavy chewser pistol from its holster. His thumb rode the hammer. “River’s gotten too hot for ’em today, I reckon.”
“Or perhaps they’ve come hunting the Gifted?”
“I don’t think so,” Chris said from behind. “They couldn’t know I’d be here. And they wouldn’t bring women and children on a hunting party.”
“Once they figure it out, it won’t matter if that’s their purpose in being here or not. They’ll kill you just the same.” She kept herself from even glancing back at him. She couldn’t risk drawing attention to him. Twenty Cherazii could overpower their squad of Guardsmen without even trying.
Fifteen minutes later, they reached the Wall’s base. Half a dozen warriors, Rievers riding behind them, circled the foot of the path. They dressed alike for the most part, in leather tricorns and long layered coats, split up the back. Every one of them gripped either sword or axe, the blades lackluster from use. In the sward beyond, their women and children waited, the unbraided half of the women’s hair loose to the wind and the bold red, green, and purple of their gowns glaring against the gray day. They stared at Allara’s group, their expressions hard.
At the center of the defensive semicircle, an elder, his gray hair in two bound braids down his chest, laid his war club across his knees. “You can stop there.”
Quinnon cocked the chewser, and its faint hum charged the air. “Did we ask you for trouble, blue?”
“Not today.” The elder’s voice was as cracked and worn as the wrinkles that cut through his white skin like the grain on a heffron tree. “We seek the high country, you seek the low. And no doubt you crave haste as much as we do.”
Allara rode up beside Quinnon. “You come from the Aiden?”
The Cherazim glanced at her and tipped his chin in grudging recognition. “Thereabouts. The Koraudians attacked again at dawn.”
She hardly dared say the words: “My father?”
Cherazii faces were notoriously difficult to read. But something in the flicker of his eyes might have hinted at sorrow. “He’s fighting a losing battle, Searcher. The Koraudians have his back to the Wall.”
Chris’s horse moved forward, and Allara stiffened. He needed to stay back. She drew her sword a full hand span from its scabbard before she stopped herself.
He faced the old Cherazim and greeted him with his hand to his chest. “How did you escape the battle?”
If the Cherazim recognized Chris, the carved stolidity of his expression never altered. “We crossed into Lael just before the border was closed. We scented the battle last night and camped this side of the Aiden. It was only a matter of running a few outposts.”
Chris regarded him. “Do any of the Cherazii fight with Tireus?”
“Why should we fight for an army that protects heretics and traitors? Justice departed Lael long ago.” He tilted his head. “You’re an outlander.”
Chris nodded.
“How far outland?”
Chris had the wisdom to at least think about his answer. He had to know he was in considerable danger right now. “Far enough.”
The old Cherazim sucked his teeth. “We’ve heard rumors another Gifted has come.”
Allara raised her chin. “Would you fight with him if he has?” The Cherazii claimed to be the only true followers of the old traditions. But those traditions demanded they rally to the Gifted. And what did they do now? The Gifted rode to war, and the Cherazii rode away.
“We have never ceased to fight.” The Cherazim turned in his saddle and gestured the rest of the group forward. When he turned back, his eyes ran up and down Chris’s length. “I have so little faith remaining I’m not even sure it is there at all. But should I hear a worthy Gifted leads what is left of the armies of Lael, perhaps I will ply my sword beneath his banner. Perhaps.” His lip curled, and he released his hold on his horse’s mouth. “We have also heard rumors this new Gifted is not so worthy.”
Allara’s breath caught. Beneath the lines of his jerkin, Chris’s body tightened.
“However,” the Cherazim said, “I do not act upon rumors, no matter what they say. I await proof.” As the rest of his party trotted up behind him, he saluted Allara with his war club. “Haste to your battle, Searcher. May the God of all prevail.”
“May the God of all prevail.” She echoed the formal sentiment and reined away before he could change his mind about the rumors.
As the Cherazii urged their weary horses up the wall in a clatter of pebbles, she touched her spurs to Rihawn’s sides and left them behind. So the nightmare had started in earnest. Mactalde was hammering at the gates of Lael, and all that stood between him and the uttermost reaches of Lael was a trapped and demoralized army and a Gifted who was barely a month across. She led the way to the banks of the Northfall, the rain misting against her face. Her lungs drew in the cold smell of water, and she closed her mouth and held the breath.
Rihawn hurtled through the trees, and she leaned low over his neck. When he leapt into the river, she straightened and tossed her braid over her shoulder. Water splashed from behind, hoofbeats smashing through the water and into the riverbed. Quinnon, pistol still in hand, galloped past without a glance.
As they clambered up the far bank, Chris’s horse fell into stride next to Rihawn. “He knew who I was.”
“Yes.”
“He’ll know the rumor is true if we ever meet again. And I won’t blame him for exacting justice.”
“I will.” The words churned up from deep in her chest.
Together, they emerged from the trees, and the horses lengthened into a desperate gallop, their legs lashing the grass.
_________
By the time they reached the Aiden River crossing, stragglers from the Army of Lael were everywhere. They ran with all the strength left in their bodies, their weapons abandoned behind them.
“Hold!” Quinnon blocked their way. But they ran on, most too blind with fear to notice his officer’s medallion.
He galloped after one and dragged him back. “Hold yourself there, and tell me what goes on here.”
The soldier, a boy of seventeen or eighteen, groveled on his knees. His bloodshot eyes bulged. “Mactalde has come back! I wouldn’t have believed it, but I saw it for myself.”
Quinnon grabbed his collar and yanked him to his feet. “A lamb-faced bodkin like you wouldn’t know Mactalde if you met him at a Commemorating Festival! You weren’t even born when he died!”
“I swear it’s him! It has to be him! And if’n it ain’t, it don’t matter, ’cause he’s about to win the war! He’s going to kill us all!”
Allara snatched at his sleeve. “What about my father? Where’s the king?”
He stared at her, blankly. His breath wheezed.
“Where is he?” She shook his arm.
“I don’t know.” He almost burst into hysterics. “I swear I don’t know. But his banner still flies!”
Chris braced one hand against his horse’s steaming shoulder. “Then the order for retreat hasn’t been given?”
The foot soldier glanced back and forth between Chris and Allara. “I don’t know.”
Quinnon hauled him off his feet again and reined his gray around. “Get back across the river and fight, or I’ll kill you myself.”
They galloped to the Aiden. Battle cries and screams of pain echoed above the crash of artillery. Fires raged in the brush on the far side of the river, and the stench of smoke and blood clogged the air. Allara crowded her sword and her reins into one hand and drew her straitquin pistol with the other.
Ahead, through the veil of smoke, the gaunt frame of an elevated cannon bucked as it launched round after round. Black-faced bombardiers, their eyes wild and white, never ceased from the frantic rhythm of their work. They lowered the great bronze cannon, engraved with Lael’s rearing stag, from its towering wooden frame. Once it was within reach, they swung the barrel over so the gaping mouth faced rearwards. They fed it with the smooth black fireballs that, in seconds, would burn across the gray sky.
Quinnon turned to find the chief bombardier. “Where’s rear command?”
The man gestured toward the Wall behind. His shout disappeared in the crack of the cannon’s launch.
Quinnon checked to make sure Allara followed, then spurred his horse forward. Side by side, she and Chris galloped after him through the confused and wounded troops.
Beyond the gusts of smoke, her uncle, Denegar Amras, sat his horse on a rise of ground. He peered into his spyglass and bellowed orders without looking around to see if they were being followed.
Quinnon stopped in front of him. “Where’s the king?”
Denegar spared them barely a glance. “How the devil should I know? Down there someplace.” Seeing Allara, he lowered the glass. “What do you think you’re doing here? Get yourself to safety!”
On the far side of the smoke-laden meadow, Lael’s army floundered, half its men scrambling in a futile retreat back to the Wall. Beyond the meadow, the swell of the plains ran red with charging Koraudians.
Her heart stuttered. If Mactalde was just now sending his full strength onto the field, the day was indeed lost.
In the middle of it all, the green and gold royal pennon wavered, disappeared for a moment in the smoke, reappeared, and wavered again.
“The battle’s already lost,” Quinnon said. “If the army doesn’t get off that field, Mactalde will finish this war in one stroke.”
Lael’s ranks fell before the Koraudians like sand castles before the surf. Men who had held fast until now broke ranks and fled. She choked. Before her eyes, the Army of Lael was disintegrating. She darted her gaze back to the center of the field, where the pennon had waved. But the flash of green no longer blinked through the rolling smoke.
Her muscles twitched. “The flag . . .” Her father would be near it, somewhere. If the flag fell, so did the king, so did the army, so did the battle.
Denegar dragged savagely at his reins. “Get them out of here!” he snapped at Quinnon.
She started to rein away, then caught sight of Chris. He held in his horse with one hand and rooted through his saddlebags with the other.
“What are you doing?” she demanded. “We have to get out of here!”
From the saddlebags, he pulled out a simple black pist
ol, the like of which she’d never seen before.
Her heart jumped. “Where did you get that?”
He reined away. “I brought it across after word of the battle came. I’m still better with a gun than with a sword, and I can’t fight close with the pistols you guys have.” His eyes charted the battlefield.
“No.” She seized his sleeve. “Are you mad? We’re leaving. We have to leave now!”
He looked at her. “You leave. I’m going to do this.”
Heat washed over her. “This is not what you’re here for! If you die out there, do you think that’s going to do anyone any good? Is that going to fix what’s happened?”
“I’m not going to sit here. I’m done sitting.” His face hardened. “If I stay here and watch while this whole thing comes down around our ears, then that’s it, for both of us. I’d be finished just as surely as if I get shot out there.”
She looked over her shoulder for Quinnon. “You can’t go. I won’t let you go.” Anger rose to vanquish the fear. “The Koraudians will hack you apart before you can even cross the field!”
“You want to lose your war today?”
“The day is already lost! Nothing you do can save it!”
“I can get that pennon back up.” He reined the horse away.
“No.” She dug her fingernails into his sleeve. “You have to come with us. If you’re killed today, we will have nothing left! Nothing. Quinnon!” The cry tore her throat.
He didn’t look at her. “I told you before. I make my own decisions about how to act.” Almost before she realized what he was doing, he pulled his arm free and laid his heels to his horse.
“No—” She closed her legs around Rihawn’s girth, ready to follow.
Quinnon blew past her. “Stay there!”
The two horses, gold and gray, thundered across the battleground, one in pursuit of the other, the other in pursuit of folly. The retreating army poured into the meadow at her feet. Most of the men ran for the river. Some scattered into the trees to the south. Behind her, Denegar bellowed for them to regroup.
She spun Rihawn around and spurred him back toward the river. If her Gifted insisted on throwing away his life, she at least had to attempt to keep him from dying in vain.
On the riverbank, the artillery thundered on. Bombardiers on one end loaded the cannons with combustible shells, while their partners dashed buckets of water over the blue glow of the hydraulic core. She galloped up to them and flung herself from her saddle. They stared as she caught hold of the crisscrossed support planks of a cannon’s fifty-span frame and started climbing. The machine bucked, rebounding so hard it almost jerked out from beneath her.
Below, the chief bombardier shouted. “My lady, get down!”
“Keep firing!” Almost to the top, she hooked her arm over a plank and tucked her hand to the side to keep it clear of the cannon’s rebound.
Running soldiers congested the sward below. They would see her, and they would recognize her as the only woman who could possibly have found her way to their battlefield.
“Listen to me!”
They stared as they ran past. Few slowed.
She filled her lungs. “The Gifted has come! The Gifted fights!” They would hear her. They had to hear her.
The bombardiers’ blackened faces tilted up.
“The Gifted!” The cannon jolted, and a few men slowed their frantic pace in uncertainty.
A bombardier took up her cry. “The Gifted! The Searcher says the Gifted is here!”
The shout spread. Soldiers began to falter, to slow. They stared up at her.
“Look!” She pointed with her sword, and the men turned to see the two horsemen tearing across the field to face the Koraudian onslaught. “He rides to battle even now!”
Ripples of disbelief swarmed the army.
“The Gifted fights for Lael!” Her throat ripped on the words. “But he cannot fight alone!”
The retreat trickled to a halt. Men turned to watch Chris and Quinnon flying into death’s teeth. They stood there, chests heaving, weapons at their sides, silent.
Then, from somewhere in their midst, a voice bellowed: “Rally!”
“Fight for Lael!” she cried. “Fight for the Gifted!”
The cry spread into a roar. What remained of the Army of Lael turned back to face their enemies. Denegar galloped up on the right flank to take charge of his men.
High above them all, she clung to the cannon’s shuddering frame.
“Will you come down now, my lady?” the chief entreated.
“No.” If Chris Redston was about to die, she had no choice but to watch until the end.