book1

by Fire

  Sendarus rode forward with Galen. Everything now depended on saving their left flank and repelling the Chett lancers. If they could do that, they could win the battle; if the lancers went unchecked, nothing would save them.

  The knights rode forward in three straight lines, each line with around five hundred knights. They moved at a slow canter and so closely together that Sendarus could reach out and touch the shoulders of the riders to his left and right.

  They first met their own infantry, fleeing unarmed from the field. Close behind them were scattered bands of Chett lancers, but Galen refused to break his lines to go after them. The lancers saw them and quickly retreated in panic. The knights, the best trained cavalry on the continent, smoothly increased their pace to a quicker canter on Galen’s order. No words or oaths came from their lips, but everyone on the battlefield could hear the jingling of their mail and wheel stirrups, the tattoo of their stallions’ hooves on the now bare and compressed ground. Ahead, they could now see at least two wedges of enemy troops, and the giant who led them; they all knew his name, and hated him. Galen shouted a command, and they couched their lances in one swift and uniform movement and automatically increased their pace to the gallop.

  It was at this point that things started getting confusing for Sendarus, his head almost completely closed in his traditional Aman helmet. The horizon jiggled crazily through the narrow slits from which his eyes peered, and all he could hear was his own breathing. He concentrated on staying mounted during the rolling ride as the line charged the nearest enemy formation.

  Then something loomed in his restricted vision. He straightened his sword and bent his elbow and shouted his own country’s war cry, the roar of the great bear. Suddenly, there was a great crash. Horses screamed and went down, men cried in shock and pain. Sendarus could hear metal rending metal, and the softer whack of flesh and bone being butchered. He kept on going. Having obviously missed his target he reined in, wheeled, and charged in again, but in the confusing melee ahead he could not make out who was a knight and who was a Chett. He took off his helmet and hurled it away angrily. A Chett rode past, lance held overhand, and Sendarus went after him. The Chett must have heard his horse despite all the din because he turned just in time for Sendarus’ sword to drive through his chest instead of his back. Sendarus twisted it free as the Chett fell off his horse, already dead. He kicked his mount further into the fray, pushing aside the riderless mare. In front of him, two Chetts were getting the better of one of the poorer knights— who could afford only a sleeveless mail hauberk—and both his arms were bleeding profusely. Sendarus hacked into one, dropping him almost immediately, but was too late to save the knight, who was struggling to pull out the lance that had been driven through his neck. The surviving Chett reached for his sword, but was not able to unsheath it before Sendarus cut off his head. The dying knight had disappeared by then, his horse panicking and taking him away from the battle.

  Sendarus found himself in the clear, and it was obvious to him that the knights were winning this battle easily. They outnumbered the Chetts by at least three to one, had better body armor, and all wore helmets. The Chetts were fighting desperately, though, and most desperate and dangerous of all was their leader, Kumul Alarn. He swung his sword as easily as an average man could swing a twig, slicing off limbs and heads with terrifying ease. Galen and three other knights were already moving around behind him, but Kumul seemed to physically pull the stallion around with him. His sword rose and fell, cutting through the helmet and the skull of the luckless knight underneath. The knight fell back, his blood fountaining over his comrades, taking Kumul’s sword with him. Kumul swore, punched another knight in the face and took his sword, but as he raised it high to strike down on another enemy, Galen saw his opportunity and struck, sending the point of his own sword deep into the armpit of the giant. Kumul let out a terrible bellow and for an instant seemed to freeze in place. Another knight sent a slashing blow into Kumul’s back, the blade sinking deep. Galen and the knight drew out their swords at the same time and Kumul visibly slumped over the front of his stallion, then slipped sideways to the ground. A great wail went up from the Chetts and the sound of it chilled every knight who heard it.

  Jenrosa had led the banner of exhausted lancers to the rear of the Chett line, the whole time looking around desperately for Korigan, but the queen was nowhere to be seen. She thought of Lynan and headed toward the center. She could see him there, surrounded by Ager and Gudon, looking out over the battle. She called out to him but he did not hear, and rode closer. She opened her mouth to try again, but another sound cut across her, a sound of such pain and sorrow and anger that she knew immediately, instinctively, what it heralded. She added her own voice to the cry, and heard other Chetts do the same.

  Then she heard Lynan’s scream, and it was as if a real grass wolf had taken human form. Before anyone could stop him he charged forward, straight for the enemy’s center.

  The Chett lancers had fought with more courage and tenacity than Sendarus had ever encountered before in an enemy, but they were all dead now, lying in bloody heaps on the ground with their leader. He sighed with relief, because now he knew the Chetts were going to lose the battle.

  He ordered one of the knights to tie Kumul’s corpse to his horse so he could parade him in front of the enemy, letting them know that nothing—and no one—could defeat the army of Queen Areava Rosetheme of Grenda Lear. When it was done, he rode off toward the center, an escort of knights on either side. When he saw the single Chett rider coming straight for him, he thought it must be some madman. Two of the knights spurred forward to kill the Chett before he reached their general, someone they had learned to respect and admire despite his Amanite blood.

  Sendarus watched the madman closely, amazed and horrified by the fanaticism the Chetts had shown throughout the battle. He noticed that he seemed to have no face. Sendarus squinted and saw that indeed there was a face, but it was so pale it might almost have been nothing but a skull, the white bone shining in the sun.

  He watched as the two knights lowered their lances and charged. The Chett waited until the knights were only paces from him, then swerved to his right. The knight on his left had too much momentum to change course and rode past, but the other had only to change slightly his grip on his lance to redirect it. Sendarus saw the lance go through the Chett’s body, and at the same time saw the Chett’s sword cleanly take off the knight’s head. The Chett slowed, the end of the lance wobbling in the air in front of him.

  “He doesn’t know he’s dead yet,” one of his remaining escort joked.

  By now the other knight had wheeled and was charging back. The Chett looked over his shoulder and then down at the lance impaling him. As Sendarus watched, the Chett grasped the lance with his free hand and slowly pulled it out of his body, then twisted in his saddle and hurled it toward the charging knight. The lance struck the knight in the eye, propelling him off the back of his horse.

  “Fuck,” another of the escort said.

  The Chett turned back to Sendarus and his escort, kicked his mare into a gallop and whirled his sword in the air above his head. And behind him, just coming over the rise, was the rest of the Chett army.

  Sendarus’ heart froze with fear.

  “Her shoulders are coming through!” the midwife called excitedly.

  Trion was wiping Areava’s face and throat. “Your daughter is almost here, your Majesty ...” He stopped because he could feel something warm near his arm. He turned and saw that the Key of the Scepter was pulsing with light.

  “Your Majesty ... ?”

  Knights kept on getting in Lynan’s way. He sliced through necks with his sword, punched faces with his free hand, even used his teeth when he could. He felt lances pierce him, but there was no pain. He felt swords fall on him, but they could not break his bones. One by one he got rid of the annoying, armored flies, and went straight for the man who still held his ground, the man whom Lynan in his fury did not recognize, the m
an with Kumul’s body tied to his saddle by a length of rope, the man with the Key of the Sword hanging over his heart. He said nothing, casually brushed away the man’s sword, and thrust his own weapon deep into the man’s throat.

  Areava screamed suddenly in terror and pain, her back arching off the bed.

  Trion, taken by surprise, jumped back.

  The midwife tried desperately to keep her hands on the baby still half in, half out of the queen. Before her eyes, a wound opened in the baby’s throat and spouted blood all over her. The midwife fainted.

  Lynan pulled the sword out and thrust again, this time into the man’s heart. The man fell forward over Lynan’s arm and keeled sideways, still hanging in the saddle. Lynan put his other hand on the pommel of his sword and drove it in farther; he saw the point emerge out the man’s back, then threw him off his horse.

  Trion cursed and rushed to save the baby, but before he could touch her, Areava, shouting and screaming, sat up and grabbed her by the shoulders. She pulled the baby out, lifting her up to her arms, the umbilical cord dangling between her legs. Even as she did so another wound appeared in the baby’s back. Trion put his hand over the wound, but blood seeped over his hand and spilled down his arm. He was crying now, shouting in rage, but he was helpless. The baby’s head lolled back. Her eyes opened once, seemed to stare at him, and then lost focus.

  Trion stood back, in shock.

  Areava held her daughter to her, the baby’s blood mingling with her own. She wailed in grief and pain, and the whole palace filled with the sound.

  Ager was the first to reach Lynan. The youth was huddled over Kumul, holding him in his arms, rocking back and forth on his knees. Ager stood there, not knowing what to do. Then Jenrosa was there, and she leaped from her horse and joined Lynan on the ground, held her beloved’s head, and kissed his pale, blood-flecked face.

  The Red Hands and Ager’s own warriors, led by Gudon, had swept on, discarding their bows and using their swords to drive into the main body of knights. Their fury gave them each of them the strength of two men, and even the knights could not withstand them. When Korigan arrived with reinforcements and drove into the enemy’s flank, some of the knights started to turn and gallop off.

  But Ager could see the reorganized Grenda Lear infantry, most of them carrying long spears, approaching from the left. They were led by a small, dark-haired woman who marched with them on foot. Soon the Chetts would be sandwiched between the infantry and the knights, and fortune would turn against them once more.

  They had lost this battle. Only barely, but they had lost it.

  He knelt down next to Lynan and put his hand on the prince’s shoulder. “Lynan, we have to withdraw.”

  Lynan looked up at him. His face was stained with tears, and at that moment Ager once again could see the youth he had first met in the Lost Sailor Tavern all those long months ago.

  “What can I do now, Ager?” Lynan cried. “What can I do without Kumul?”

  “Fight again another day,” Ager said. “Fight again to revenge his death. But not here, not now.” He put a hand under Lynan’s arm and helped him stand, then pointed to the battle still raging nearby. “We have the upper hand and can retreat without much chance of pursuit, but if we wait too long, the enemy infantry will arrive and most of our forces will be trapped.”

  Lynan wiped his face with the back of his hand. He looked down at Sendarus and recognized him. “She sent her lover,” he said dully, then bent down and took the Key of the Sword from around Sendarus’ bloody neck. Ager brought his horse and helped him climb into the saddle. “I will bring them back, Ager, but you must look after Kumul and Jenrosa for me.”

  “They will be safe, I promise.”

  Lynan nodded and rode off to save his army.

  Chapter 30

  Dejanus slept through the night in a drunken stupor. A sergeant found him lying in his cot, smelling of wine, and threw a jug of water over his face. Dejanus woke spluttering and angry. He grabbed the sergeant’s jerkin and pushed him against a wall.

  “I’ve gutted men for less than that!” he roared.

  The sergeant did not seem to care, and this confused Dejanus.

  “Maybe you’re hard of hearing—”

  “The queen lost her baby,” the sergeant said.

  “—but I said I’ve gutted ...” His voice faded.

  “Last night,” the sergeant continued. “I heard say that it was a girl, but that she was spitting blood when she came out of the womb. It was a demon child. It almost killed the queen.”

  Dejanus let the sergeant go. He could not believe what he was hearing.

  “And the old quarter in the city burned down. Hundreds are dead. They say the demon did that, too.”

  “The old quarter? All of it?”

  “Almost. I’ve just come from there. Your guards have been helping where they can, but things are a mess. We need the constable to come down and take charge.” The sergeant looked at Dejanus with sudden interest. “You are the constable, aren’t you?”

  Prelate Edaytor Fanhow and many magickers were working with priests and guards to help clothe and feed all the victims of the fire. He knew it could have been worse, that if the fire had taken hold earlier in the night an untold number would have been caught in their beds, but with so many homes destroyed the city still had the problem of finding shelter for thousands of people.

  He overheard two of the victims talking about the miracle worker in the inn at the north end of the old quarter who was healing the dying and badly burned, and knew immediately who they were talking about. It took him an hour to find the inn. Two weary guards were still standing outside.

  “Is the prince inside?” he demanded of one.

  The guard looked frightened. “He went in this morning and still hasn’t come out. He ordered us to stay here. There was a weird blue light...”

  Edaytor let the guard babble on and entered. There were hundreds of people there, most injured in some way. He could not see Olio. A man was walking among the people with a large ewer tied to his back and a cup in his hand, offering water. Edaytor went to him and asked about the prince. The man nodded to a small bundle squatting in one corner, his face hidden from view.

  Edaytor went to him and called out his name, but the prince did not answer. He put his hand under Olio’s chin and lifted his head.

  “God, your Highness, what have you done?”

  Two blank eyes stared right through him. The prince’s mouth was slack, and saliva dribbled from one corner.

  “Stand up,” Edaytor said, and struggled to help Olio to his feet. When he let go, Olio was able to stand alone, but he made no further effort to move. Edaytor wiped the prince’s mouth and chin and then took his hand. “Come with me,” he said, and Olio obediently followed.

  When they went outside, the guards snapped to attention, then looked agog at Olio.

  “What happened?” one of them asked.

  Edaytor thought he knew but saw no need to speak of it. “Take him to Doctor Trion at the palace.”

  The guards each took one of the prince’s arms. “What about you, Prelate?”

  “I’m going to see if I can find anyone among the theurgia to help him. Tell Trion I’ll join him as soon as I’m able. Now go.”

  The guards left with their charge. Edaytor closed his eyes and shuddered. He wanted to weep, but was too tired and had seen far, far too much destruction in the last few hours. He was sure there was no magic to cure the prince. After all, what could undo the work of one of the Keys of Power?

  Primate Powl was crying over the corpse of the baby girl lying in rest on the altar of the Royal Chapel. He could hear the murmured prayers of several priests in the pews behind him, but no one else shared the altar with him.

  Dear God, he prayed silently, tell me why you have done this thing? Why did you pierce the flesh of this child? There is no demon in her. She is just a babe, slaughtered by some power, and aren’t you the source of all power?

  He s
troked the head of the baby. She had wisps of dark hair. The little body was black with blood, the skin bruised to the color of wine.

  Is this your curse on Kendra for my sins? Is your vengeance that terrible? Will you murder other children in your name?

  Powl stopped his crying and took deep breaths.

  In your name, Lord, if we only knew what it was.

  * * *

  “I have posted sentries,” Galen told the new commander of the army, “but I do not think they will be back.”

  Charion had never been so tired in her life before. “We must do something with Sendarus.”

  “We have no means of preserving him. He must be buried.”

  “Then take out his heart. Pack it in a casket with salt. Areava deserves to get something of him back.” She looked at Galen carefully; she had been curious by his show of grief for the Amanite. Although Charion lived a long way from Kendra, she was well aware of the antipathy members of the Twenty Houses felt for the nobles of the kingdom’s lesser provinces, including her own. “What did you think of him?”

  “He was a brave soldier, and a clever captain. I think I liked him. I am sore for Areava. His death will devastate her.”

  “He died a hero, at least,” Charion said, trying to make Galen feel better, a reaction which surprised her. “He drove off Salokan, saving Hume, then drove off a second and unexpected invasion by the outlaw Lynan.”

  At the mention of that name Galen shivered. “Lynan has been transformed into a demon.”

  “Did you see him?”