Fate of the Drowned (The Broken Lands Book 3)

by Carrie Summers

  Better to be certain, though.

  Parveld cast his awareness to the trailing edges of his Riftspawn horde. Like scooping out portions of his soul and setting them aside, he commanded a few dozen contingents of Riftspawn to abandon the march. Perhaps he’d focused too strongly on the seal. If Savra were bound for Guralan, she’d need to pass through outlying settlements on the grasslands. Though he’d directed his brethren away from many of the villages, favoring the final conquest over the distraction of granting peace to the citizens, he realized now that it had left him vulnerable. If not Savra, who else might undermine his efforts?

  Moreover, he’d been too cautious. He’d planned to wait until he finished in Jaliss before eliminating Kostan and his huddled refugees.

  With a mental flick of his hand, he sent many of the detachments fanning over the grasslands. They would scour the plateau of its human taint. The others, he spurred to a frenzied pace and sent for Westpass Cut. Most likely they’d arrive near dawn.

  As he returned to his body, he laughed. The Hunger had given him such an immense communion to command. If only he’d seized the full power sooner.

  Mashing the softened bread, he swallowed down the meager meal as he gathered his things. Moonlight silvered the ripe grass when he stepped outside. He shivered in the cool Chilltide air as he summoned his mount. The lizard-thing scrambled over, eyes rolling.

  Parveld mounted up, pulled a blanket tight around his shoulders, and rode north.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Fishel

  Preparing to leave Westpass Garrison

  FISHEL FELT EVERY one of his fifty-seven years as he trudged along the edge of the road, checking with groups of refugees and making a mental tally of the remaining supplies. It didn’t look good. It wasn’t just that a full third of their rations had been lost in the fire. When he stacked the amount of burned food alongside the number of ruined bedrolls and charred shelters, the tallies in his head were grim.

  Mountain settlements might spare them livestock or grain. But they had to get there first. The people were already sick. Worn down like the stumps of an old man’s teeth. Without adequate food and shelter from the cold nights… well, they wouldn’t be able to travel quickly, that was certain.

  Ahead, the small group of Atal stood in a sullen knot. Remarkably, they were even more bedraggled than the Prov refugees. Men and women swayed on their feet, and many had given up standing altogether. In the center of the huddle, a group of teenagers lay stretched on the road.

  “Do you have what you need to march?” Fishel asked as he approached.

  The father and son he’d argued with down on the plateau stepped forward. For better or for worse, the Atal seemed to have nominated them as spokesmen.

  “To be honest, sire,” the son said. “We haven’t done well with managing our supplies. The food we brought was gone before we reached the garrison… in that regard, we fared better than many others in the fire. Nothing to lose.” He shrugged.

  In past years, Fishel might have been amused to hear an Atal elite call him “sire.” But these last days had wiped away the distinction between Atal and Prov and even between Emperor and soldier. They were all in this together.

  “What about shelter?”

  Even in the predawn light, the young man’s expression turned sheepish. “We’ve existed on charity, sire. Others have given us space in their shelters at night.”

  “Then perhaps you can help them carry the tents today.”

  The son looked at the ground. “Many of us offered. The Provs scoffed at the idea that we’d be any help carrying the loads. Just slow the whole procession down, they said.”

  “Well,” Fishel said. “I suppose they have a right to judge. If you haven’t visited the kitchen, please take your morning meal. I’ll see that you receive modest loads for today’s march. The wagons must remain here, so everyone needs to carry what they can.”

  “Excuse me? Fishel, sire?”

  A hiss rose from the center of the group as a boy pushed out of the huddle. Fishel glimpsed his face before his mother pulled him back into the group. It was the same child who’d tried to speak with him on the plateau. Before, Fishel had walked away. But now, the Spawn were coming, and there was little the refugees could do to defend themselves. It was no time for secrets.

  He shoved into the knot of men and women and laid a hand on the mother’s shoulder. “I’d like to hear what he has to say,” he said mildly.

  “It’s nothing,” the mother said, shaking her head. “Just a child’s fantasies.”

  “Even better. Sometimes we adults need children’s innocence to brighten our hearts and remind us why we’re alive.”

  Still, the mother shoved the boy behind her. She shook her head, but the child peered around her shoulder.

  “Are the wagons stuck because of the dirt up ahead?” the child asked.

  “Shush,” the mother said. “Don’t bother the innkeeper. He’s trying to keep us safe.”

  “So am I, Mother,” the child said, pushing his way around her.

  Fishel held the boy’s eyes, noting the urgency on his face. This was no game or child’s fantasy. Fishel turned back to the father and son who’d greeted him. “Do you know this woman? Perhaps you could quiet her protests.”

  The pair looked awkwardly at one another. “We don’t usually—”

  “My mother’s been hiding what I can do since I was five,” the boy said with his chin raised and shoulders back. As his mother attempted to clamp her hand over his mouth, he darted away, shoving deeper into the crowd. “But it doesn’t matter anymore whether I’m the only heir to my dead father’s household. There is no household anymore. Besides, I don’t think Emperor Kostan would stop me from getting married.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your father,” Fishel said as he wove through the bodies to reach the boy. The mother tried to follow, but the other Atal shifted to block her path.

  “It’s okay,” the boy said. “I don’t remember him, though mama says he was a good man. A powerful man. But the reason I was asking about that dirt pile is because if it's a problem, I can move it for you.”

  Fishel got down on one knee in front of the boy. Among the Empire’s upper class, Fishel knew of only one prohibition against marriage. The Emperors had long feared the power of geognosty, largely because the earth mages had no interest in bowing before the throne’s wishes. An earth mage would be very useful right now. Very useful indeed.

  “Why don’t you come with me, lad?” Fishel said. “I believe we should have a chat with his eminence.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Kostan

  Westpass Garrison

  “IS AVILL STILL sleeping?” I asked as Lilik stepped up beside me.

  The woman nodded. “Not even a waking barrack-full of soldiers could drag her from slumber, it seems.”

  Good. Though I’d need to wake her soon. I wanted her marching with one of the early groups leaving the valley. “And you? Did you rest?”

  “More than you did, I’d wager.”

  I didn’t have an answer for that, so instead, I turned my attention to the group of men and women I’d asked to meet me. They stood in a loose huddle on the road outside the garrison’s front gate, blowing into their hands to warm chilled fingertips.

  “We’re out of time. We must have every person out of this valley by dawn tomorrow. I’m looking for final ideas on how to get the horses and supplies through the landslides. We’re sending people onward because we must, but if we leave all this behind—” I gestured at the row of wagons lined up beside the road. “—we won’t last very long. Your Functions were as carpenters and masons, miners and smiths. I hope that together you can devise a plan.”

  Eyes met across the loose circle of tradespeople, and feet shuffled. I glanced again at the wagons and their canvas-draped loads. We needed these things to survive. There had to be a way. Unfortunately, the silence stretched out. No one
seemed eager to talk.

  “If we use wood planks to build a road over the top, will it support the wagons?” I asked in hopes that throwing out something would start the conversation.

  One of the men sucked his teeth as he shook his head. “Might, but the horses’ hooves won’t grip wood that steep.”

  My ploy worked. Across the small circle, a man and woman bent their heads together and began to speak in low tones. Some of the builders stood on tiptoes to get a better look at the berm barring our passage.

  I stepped back. “Please devote the morning to thinking about it. I’ll be organizing the next groups setting out on today’s march. If anyone has a suggestion, please bring it to me immediately.”

  As I walked away, Lilik at my shoulder, I sighed. “I wish Savra were here,” I said. “She’s cleverer than me.”

  “Raav used to say that about me, but we just had different strengths.”

  “Whether smarter or just different, I give anything to find her.”

  “I know,” Lilik said quietly.

  Just inside the garrison, Sirez was organizing a group of weary Sharders, assigning them to sections of refugees. She kept glancing at the crowd, shaking her head as if wondering how so many people could be moved. As I leaned back against the garrison’s wall, my head swam. Storms, but I was tired.

  “Sirez,” I called. “Are the wardstones in place?”

  “We’ve got a line across the valley from ridge top to ridge top,” she confirmed. “Two sentries per wardstone. They’ll sleep in a rotation.”

  Good. I doubted a couple of dozen wardstones would hold back an army of Riftspawn, but the tactic would slow any surprise advance. I hoped, anyway.

  As I wearily pushed off from the wall, the sound of hoofbeats snapped me awake. I jogged to a wagon and climbed onto the bed to look down the road.

  Almost unconsciously, my hand brushed the hilt of my scimitar. Whoever this was, they weren’t expected. A group of maybe two dozen riders was coming at a gallop. When they burst into the valley, they reined up suddenly to avoid tramping the milling Provs on the road.

  I jerked in surprise when I recognized the lead rider.

  The head ferro mage stood, creating a strange clanking sound from his backpack. “Where is the Emperor?”

  ***

  “Kostan,” Azar said as she tried to follow the leader of her order into the gatehouse. The man cut her off with a sharp gesture.

  “It can wait,” the man, Hoareld, said.

  Her eyes widened in annoyance as she stopped, arms snapping across her chest in frustration. I glanced back and forth between the two mages but finally gestured for Hoareld to approach the table. With a last glance of admonishment at the apprentice mage, he shut the door in her face and paced to the far end of the room.

  As he cleared his throat, the Prime Protector and Sirez slipped through the door. The Prime paused long enough to glare at the mage to indicate her opinion of their arrival days after the exodus.

  Only the map was still spread across the tabletop. The other parchments had been rolled and tied and were now carefully stowed in a trunk in the corner of the room. A good thing because without warning, Hoareld swung his rucksack off his shoulder and upended it on the table. At least a hundred pieces of black iron tumbled onto the battered wood. There were rings and necklaces, little figurines and candleholders. The assortment clattered to a halt, a couple of spare pieces rolling off onto the floor. Without thinking, I stooped and gathered the stray objects.

  “I see you’ve brought us some black iron,” the Prime said in a flat voice.

  The mage graced her with a withering glance before returning his attention to me. The ferros had always been a closeted order, holding their secrets close. Still, I didn’t like the way he was carrying himself. Ilishian had been an arrogant man, but in the end, he’d sacrificed himself for the throne. I wondered if the new leader of the order had that same strength of character behind his unpleasant demeanor.

  “I assume you intend to explain,” I said.

  “Before I do, I’d like your assurance that no ferro will be persecuted for our parts in these events,” he said.

  “Without knowing your parts, I don’t see how I can grant that. However, I can tell you that punishment of past mistakes is not my concern at the moment.”

  He sighed. “Fair enough. I’ll be succinct, then. We ferros have concluded that our use of the Maelstrom-metals may have hastened the… May have helped summon the abominations currently threatening the Empire. But we did not know. I swear that on behalf of every mage who has studied in the Ferro Tower.”

  I met the man’s eyes. No, his brusque manner wasn’t arrogance. He only wished to protect those who followed him. “To quiet your worries, we’re aware of the taint that lies on Maelstrom-metals. You aren’t to blame. If anything, the throne’s greed for power is behind the taint.”

  “I mentioned our guilt because it’s the best way to explain how we can help you. Black iron carries the same corruption that lurks in the souls of the Riftspawn. That, combined with black iron’s ability to negate many types of magic, allows it to affect the beasts in ways that ordinary metals cannot. We captured one. We forged a blade of black iron. The beast died when we sliced out its corruption.”

  My heart sped as I glanced at the array of objects on the table. I didn’t want to speak my hopes aloud for fear I’d misinterpreted his meaning.

  “So we forge blades from this jumble, is what you’re saying?” the Prime asked.

  “That’s precisely what I’m saying. We’ve gathered every piece of black iron we could without running afoul of the Spawn. Each member of my order has brought this much or more. The blades will strike down the Spawn provided the wound would have been mortal with a mundane weapon.”

  Again I took in the objects on the table. This was good. This was very good. Blades that could kill the Riftspawn combined with another Heartstone… my army would have a fighting chance.

  Except, how could we turn rings and candleholders into blades while fleeing headlong into the mountains?

  “Sirez, you said many of the mountain Provs joined Stormshard when you were marching on Steelhold. Were any assigned the blacksmith Function? The garrison has a smithy, but the furnace is only hot enough to soften and reshape blades that have already been crafted. Not to mention, we’re abandoning this valley.”

  The woman was already on her feet. “I’ll go find someone who knows the nearest settlement with a forge.”

  “Good. And you have our deepest gratitude, Master Hoareld. You may have provided what we need to survive this. Now, I feel it’s my duty to stand in command while my citizens begin the day’s march. If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Of course, your eminence. There is something else, however. The second-rank mage, Azar, has news which—”

  Hoareld’s words were cut off when the door burst open. Fishel stood on the threshold, his heaving chest speaking to a quick run to get here. My heart was a sudden fist of fear. Had the Spawn arrived sooner than expected?

  “Your emin—Kostan,” he said. “I believe I’ve found something that will help us.”

  ***

  “Please stand back, everyone!” Fishel stood beside me atop the heap of cargo filling a wagon bed. Stamping in their traces, the mule team snorted at the close-pressed crowd of refugees.

  When no one heeded the man’s call, the Prime Protector vaulted up beside us and cracked a short whip. The sound echoed off the valley walls and stifled the sound of the mob. When the Prime was satisfied that enough eyes had turned in her direction, she gestured to the innkeeper, who cleared his throat.

  “Please keep to the west side of the road—that’s the left side if you’re facing me. And no one should be closer to the landslide than the back edge of the wagon. Understood?”

  “What’s going on?” a nearby Prov called.

  As Fishel drew breath to speak, I laid a hand on his arm. Avill’s words kep
t returning to me. The Heartshard was a focus for my people’s belief in me. Maybe that was finally the answer behind the Bracer of Sight implying that I must be the strong core of the Empire—the more people who had faith in me, the greater power I could bring from the Heartstones.

  Even if not, the people of Jaliss deserved the best I could give.

  “I realize that you’re afraid. You’ve heard that Jaliss has fallen, and you know the Riftspawn army can’t be far away. Our defenses are poor. A line of brave soldiers bearing wardstones is the only thing that stands between us and the Spawn. And now, we’re asking you to remain here a little longer.”

  I waited for a response, but no one spoke. Perhaps they were too tired. The sky had turned pink with the coming dawn. If any of these people had slept last night, they were more resilient than I.

  “We’re fleeing from an enemy many times too strong than us. I don’t know how else to put it. We may be running and hiding for a long time, and we simply won’t survive unless we can bring the wagons and horses through. I’m sorry you must wait, exposed, while we try to clear the way. But I’ll remain here with you.”

  “Clear it how?” a man asked. After a nudge from his neighbor, he added, “Your eminence.”

  Fishel gestured for patience, crouched down, and helped the young Atal geognost up onto the wagon. The child was pale. No doubt he was feeling the pressure after hearing my speech. I crouched down and spoke into his ear.

  “No matter what happens, you’ll leave our situation no worse than you found it.”

  The boy clenched his small fists and nodded. He glanced up at the eastern wall of the valley where a rock pinnacle thrust from the forest. A system of cracks had freed the upper half of the pillar, shifting it outward as if a giant’s mallet had tried to knock the spire apart. The boy closed his eyes, and a shallow wrinkle of concentration appeared on his forehead. His lips worked through silent words as he tried to nudge the overbalanced mass of stone forward.