A Wizard's Sacrifice

by Amanda Justice

  Chuckling, she eyed the carts, some filled with rocks and others with sulfur-rich clay. “I’ll get started then. You’ll find Thabean at the armory.”

  “By now I’ll find him on the line. Fare well, madam!”

  “You too!” She lifted a pair of boulders, rolled them in the sulfa, and dropped each into a catapult’s basket. Flying up to fix the aim, she signaled the direction and tension, and the ox teams dragged the catapults into position. The gunners lit the sulfa, and Vic chopped her hand down. A beam thunked forward, launching a sizzling, spitting fireball. Vic boosted the ordinance’s trajectory over the Council’s troops.

  The first rock exploded, flinging Kragnashians into the air, and the next catapult released its fiery load. Other wizards’ artillery launched blazing rocks. Thumb-thick arrows rained, and massive bodies crumpled. Screeches and whistles echoed as obsidian fell in glistening black hail. Pockets opened in the shining rows of chitin. Down on the ground, Shirian and Halbert had erected a dome over Csichren’s mess. Vic diverted artillery away from them, but elsewhere flaming debris smashed into barracks and pavilions, setting them aflame. The Kragnashians tore through the canvas, ripped apart anyone seeking refuge in the tents. Another volley exploded among the creatures, followed by the ballistae’s load of spears, thick as a man’s thigh.

  Crawling over the dead, the Kragnashians plowed into the pikemen, swinging their mandibles like scythes and sweeping aside the troopers like grain. The pikemen dodged and parried, slipping beneath the mouthparts, stabbing upward, emerging from the corpses covered in green blood. Springtime scent wafted upward, stained with the iron stench of human blood, offal, and charred hair.

  The battle dragged deep into the afternoon. Rain, then sun showered the combatants as the invaders crushed toward the camp’s center. Troops became concentrated around the blunt point of the Kragnashians’ wedge; all the wizards were on the ground or flying near it, exploding the earth beneath the Kragnashians’ feet, shielding the pikemen or directing the archers. Mail glinting in a passing sun shower, Thabean and Samovael dove and struck with whirring pikes while their troops strove to hold the People at bay. Vic felt a twinge of guilt that she floated far above the fray, but contrition drowned in determination to protect her child. Ashel’s child. A palm pressed against the small, firm bulge of her belly, she scooped the last rocks out of the cart below and loaded the catapults.

  “That’s the last of it, madam,” the commander called up to her.

  “There are no more carts?”

  “No, ma’am! We’re nearly out of ammunition for the ballistae too.”

  “Stand by.” She flew up and surveyed the other artillery squadrons. Everyone was out or nearly so. Cursing, she dropped down and informed the officer. As he ordered his troops to grab pikes and head to the line, a horn sang an alarm. Vic hurtled into the air and saw another tide of Kragnashians flowing into the ditch bordering Thabean’s wedge. At the trumpet’s call, Thabean shot out of melee. His troops broke ranks and streamed down the alleys between the tents, leaping stakes and lines to defend their perimeter. The guards already there tossed buckets of burning pitch into the ditch.

  “Bring that sulfa!” Vic shouted. The gunners whipped the oxen into a run and hurried toward the new front.

  “Help me erect a shield,” Thabean cried as he sped past. His hair matted with green blood and red, his skin sallow—even from a distance she could tell he’d overused his power. Rushing after him, she pushed her own Woern to their limit. Her throat and temples tightened, heralding a migraine. Thabean was surely already feeling one. But soldiers did what had to be done, as true here as in her own time.

  Along the rim of the ditch, Thabean thickened the air into a viscous glue. She flew to the edge of the Kragnashian advance and erected another barricade that surged toward Thabean’s position, nearly a mile away. Seconds later, the ground shook with the impact of the two shields. The People clambered up the side of the ditch, crawled alongside the barrier, antennae batting solid air. More came behind, climbed over their fellows, building height, antennae hunting for the top of the shield. Vic raised the barrier as new ranks mounted old ones and a living ladder spanned the ditch and extended up the invisible wall.

  A long-limbed girl ran up, panting. “Madam, Sir Thabean wishes you to collapse the barrier on his signal. He said to use the force of it to slam the creatures into the pikes.”

  “Acknowledged,” Vic barked. Near the base, some creatures began to push through slowly, as if they swam through tar. A horn sounded three sharp blasts, and power churned through Vic’s nerves as she tilted the barrier and smashed it down. The mound of Kragnashians crumpled. Screeches pierced eardrums as bodies were crushed into the pikes, but the People nearest the base tumbled beneath the barrier into camp. A double rank of pikemen stood against them, spear butts ground into the earth. Rising on their curtain of legs, Kragnashians steamed over the soldiers and rushed into the alleys. Another rank of infantry burst out of the cover of the tents, dodging under the mandibles to bring their pikes home. Hundreds more People clambered over the broken bodies in the ditch; others wormed out of the crush, and Vic escaped into the air.

  Thabean flew to her side. Grunnaire’s camp and Samovael’s were in similar peril. Smoke billowed as the remaining gunners lobbed buckets of burning pitch at the Kragnashians. It did little against their carapaces, but it did light the canvas barracks afire.

  “Rockfall,” Thabean swore and shot toward his pavilion. Through a break in the smoke, Vic glimpsed Bethniel with a pike in her hand, surrounded by Kragnashians.

  “Shrine’s bitch!” She hurtled past Thabean. An enormous warrior, twenty feet tall with tattoos thickly scrolled across its carapace and mandibles, loomed over the princess, antennae twitching furiously. Eyes wide, Bethniel scrambled backward on hands and feet. A dozen other Kragnashians, smaller and with many fewer tattoos, formed a circle around them. Vic swooped down, grabbed Bethniel, and launched herself upward, but the big warrior leapt up and grabbed her ankle. Bones crunched in the chitinous grip, and Vic’s limbs and spine cracked as the creature flung them back to the ground. Rolling, she grabbed Beth’s pike and jabbed at the warrior, erecting a shield around them to block the others. The warrior screeched, snapped, and swung its mandibles. Dodging the blow, she thrust up at the creature’s thorax. It reared back, grabbed the pike, and ripped it from her grasp.

  Thabean landed, Dealn beside him, and the brothers attacked, pikes whirling, jabbing, stabbing. Somehow, Dealn matched his brother’s wizardry-boosted speed as they scored the giant’s thorax and swiped it off balance. The other Kragnashians pushed through Vic’s shield, and more were surrounding them, mounting each other, building a living dome and blocking escape by flight.

  Vic hobbled over to Bethniel, her foot twisted at the wrong angle. It didn’t hurt. Not yet. “Can you talk to them?”

  Beth’s eyes were big as saucers. “When they first surrounded me, I tried that. It just seemed to upset them. The warrior started clicking something about you—about ‘The One,’ and then something about the life of the trees, but their dialect is different, and I couldn’t really make it out.”

  Dealn roared, entangling his pike in the warrior’s legs. He yanked. The creature stumbled, but it landed a blow to his skull, and he tumbled back. Thabean shouted, struck with renewed fury, but he was wheezing, his face gray.

  The pike flew into Vic’s hand. Skin stretched around her ankle, blood filling her foot like a bag, but she immobilized it in a cast of hardened air. It felt like a brick, but she could stand on it. Beth stood, eyes locked on Thabean as he thrust and parried, each breath a hollow gasp while the Kragnashians chittered all around, a constant hum. The light died beneath the thickening mass of creatures. Vic filled her lungs. Her Woern thrummed. She’d once blown a hole in a mountain—could the Kragnashians’ immunity to wizardry withstand the same force?

  The warrior knocked Thabean to the ground and flowed on top of him, pinning him,
its antennae dancing toward his head. Half a dozen Kragnashians burst through the shield, mandibles snapping. Vic swooped under the thorax of the first, shoving her pike deep into it, yanking it free as it fell. She dove toward the second, but a third had its mandibles around Bethniel’s neck. Antennae tapped her forehead, and the creature shrieked and backed away. The giant warrior atop Thabean threw back its head and keened, flowing off the wizard. The surrounding Kragnashians peeled back, daylight blazing as the dome melted. The creatures rushed toward the forest, ignoring the troopers standing with slack jaws and idle pikes.

  Thabean shook his head, blinking, then scrambled to Dealn. Blood pooled beneath his brother’s skull. The wizard placed his palms on Dealn’s cheeks, trembling and rocking. Bethniel knelt beside them, touched Thabean’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  He swallowed, and the lines above his forehead eased away. A hand on his knee, he shoved himself upright and watched the last of the Kragnashians disappear from view.

  “Did you feel it?” Bethniel asked, her voice thick.

  “It was monstrous, my lady.” He handed her up, and their eyes lingered on each other, the corners of her lips curving into a whisper of a smile, his features softening in response. Vic marveled at the energy sparking between the pair, as if they were alone in all the world.

  Soldiers rushed around them, crying praise to Elesendar.

  “Highness!” Lillem pushed through the ranks, gasping, blood oozing from a gash in his forehead. “Are you hurt?”

  Gustave followed in the lieutenant’s wake. “Madam, you live!”

  The sense of wonder vanished in the tumult of soldiers. “I live, Gustave,” Vic said. “What do you make of this?”

  The pirate glanced toward the empty perimeter. “It would seem they got what they came for. Did they touch you?”

  “No.” But they had touched Bethniel and Thabean, then retreated. Got what they came for. She frowned. “Why do you ask?”

  Gustave grinned, the gap in his teeth sharp as his incisors. “Legend, madam. To be touched by a Kragnashian, and to survive, is to be blessed.”

  Searching for a reply to this baffling bit of faith, she stepped back, and pain exploded from her ankle.

  Gustave shouldered her arm. “I’ll help you to the hospital.”

  “Victoria,” Thabean barked from the circle of his advisors. “What happened to our artillery support?”

  She gulped back a groan. “They ran out of ammunition, sir.”

  Thabean glanced at Dealn. Eyes twitching, he pressed his lips together, then turned to his officers. “Have the men collect what stones they can from camp. We shall need to quarry more, in case there is another attack such as this. I shall speak to Saelbeneth about more sulfa. In the meantime, madam, the Council will meet—we must prepare. Fainend, attend me while I dress.”

  * * *

  Bethniel followed protocol and bowed her shoulders as Thabean departed, but she still felt the ghost of his fingers clasped round her hand. Soldiers scooped up Dealn’s body and hurried away, and her heart ached in sympathy.

  “Highness,” Lillem repeated, “are you hurt?”

  “No, but Vic is.” And the Council would be meeting. “Help me get her to her tent.”

  “I’m all right.” Vic floated away from Gustave. “Lieutenant, get that gash looked after. Beth, let’s go.”

  Servants had readied wash water and laid out a red silk gown, just as Bethniel had ordered. In the past month, Thabean’s household had come to provide for Vic’s needs as promptly as his. She stripped off her clothes and hopped into the tub, dunking herself completely. Water streamed off her shoulders and hair as Bethniel handed her the soap before stripping off her own blouse and trousers. She felt gritty with sweat and dirt, but there wasn’t time for them both to bathe, so she slipped into a clean shift and the silk dress she kept in Vic’s tent. Tying off the laces, she pulled the combs out of her hair and set to work getting it back into shape.

  Well soaped, Vic submerged again and climbed out of the tub. Handing her a towel, Bethniel winced at her ankle, grown twice its normal size. “That looks really painful.”

  Grimacing, her sister pulled a comb through wet hair, the tines leaving dry strands in their wake. “It smarts. At least I can float.”

  Vic wove her hair into a neat braid while Bethniel helped her into the robe and tied the sashes together. When finished, she stepped back for a last look. Vic was always likely to forget some detail—leave her hair snarled or a fold of her gown awry—but today she looked well for all the speed with which they’d changed. “All ready,” she pronounced.

  “What happened, when it touched you?” Vic grabbed her arm.

  The tingling where their skin met was a shadow of the electric surge she’d felt when Thabean clasped her hand, a feeling which itself was leavened with the inexplicable wash of emotion she’d felt when the Kragnashian’s antennae grazed her forehead—wonder and awe, followed by the briefest flash of joy. The tingling subsided, and Bethniel’s blood rushed up her neck as she realized all these feelings were just the Woern! Bloody useless parasites, turning her into no more than a silly twit! She scowled. “I thought I felt something, but looking back, I think it was relief that the warrior wasn’t killing me.”

  Vic’s eyes narrowed. “Beth, this is important. They retreated after they touched you. They didn’t say anything to you?”

  Pushing her irritation aside, she thought back. She knew she must have been terrified when the mandibles clamped down around her neck, but she couldn’t remember being scared, just the wonder and the awe and then, the joy. It was bizarre. She shook her head—in Direiellene, when various Kragnashians had touched her, she’d felt nothing odd. It must have been just shock and relief. “Like I said, I couldn’t really understand their dialect—if they said something beyond what I’ve told you, I didn’t catch it. I don’t know why they left.”

  “All right; let’s go.” Lips pressed tight, Vic glided out, her robe sweeping the ground, covering her swollen ankle and foot. Heading toward the Council pavilion, they passed the artillery, drawn now into neat rows.

  “I liked Dealn. I’ll miss him,” Vic said, touching both hands to her heart, then splaying her fingers.

  “What’s that gesture?”

  Her sister snorted softly. “Oreseeker condolence sign. Not sure why it came to me now; I haven’t used it in years.”

  “You saw enough people die in Fembrosh.”

  “I did. I—I guess I just said goodbye the same way as everyone else: ‘May she go into the trees.’ You don’t hear that expression here.”

  “You do among Saelbeneth’s troops, and Dealn was a believer, but I think Thabean is a heretic.” She copied the sign. “What’s it mean?”

  “Basically, ‘I feel your grief.’ You touch your heart and then put your palm on her chest if you’re standing close enough, or extend your hand in his direction if you’re not. If you mean to express your own loss, you just open your fingers.”

  A wave of cold descended from the roots of Bethniel’s hair as she recalled how Thabean had caressed his brother’s face, and she realized he had shared an intimate secret, letting her see the anguish he masked to his retainers. She knew all too well the boiling within of feelings that cannot be shown. A royal was supposed to remain a picture of calm no matter what happened. She’d collapsed in a dead faint when the assassin’s blade struck her father’s throat and lost the throne to her mother as a result. “I’d have been utterly lost without Elesendar’s guidance when Father died. How do you heretics stand it?”

  Vic threaded an arm through hers. “Your loved ones draw you through it.”

  “What if you have none? Wizards are supposed hold themselves above and apart from other people.”

  The skin around Vic’s eyes tightened. “Like troopers in our time, why we weren’t permitted to marry. You can’t put your spouse or children above your duty.”

  Sympathy thickened Bethniel�
��s throat. Vic had been sent here to kill a woman whose only crime was being born a wizard, as Vic’s child would be. She squeezed her sister’s hand. “Whatever I can do, I will,” she said.

  Vic’s mouth tilted upward. “I know.”

  A Grand Soiree

  Rapping, soft but insistent, drew Ashel out of a deep slumber. He rolled onto his back, massaged sleep out of his eyes. His head ached and his mouth tasted foul. In the mirror, the man sprawled on the bed wore stained, rumpled clothes. In the room, the one slouching upright stank like Emily’s bliss dive. He hadn’t been back there, but only because he’d been diligently working to empty Lornk’s liquor cabinet first.

  The rapping intensified, and he dragged himself over to the door. Wineyll stood there, clothed in gossamer silk. The neckline met the collarbone, the opacity dense enough for modesty, but the slits that rose from the hemline to the waist would have had eyebrows popping in Latha, even with the linen trousers swathing her legs.

  “What are you wearing? It looks like a handkerchief.”

  Her nose wrinkled as she came into the room. “Elsa had it made for me. I insisted on the trousers, though.”

  Shame heated his face. “I wish you wouldn’t go tonight.”

  “Lornk needs me there, and the Commissar asked me to bring my flute and play for him, so how could I refuse?”

  In the Minstrels Guild, playing for the Commissar of Betheljin was considered a sweeter booking than performing for Latha’s monarchs. “It’s dangerous, Wineyll.”

  “It won’t be the first time I’ve gone into the enemy’s stronghold.”

  He scowled, and her eyes flicked to his butchered hand. Color stippled her cheeks.

  “Did you need something?” he asked.

  “I—I just thought I’d come by and see you. In case . . . just in case.”

  Regret dredged up his affection for this girl, one he’d taught and tutored and reared like a little sister, pulling love out of the morass of despair and self-loathing that stained his soul. He opened his arms slowly, hesitatingly, not expecting her to want to touch his stinking clothes, but she rushed into his embrace, her arms tight around his ribs. “I’m sorry you were dragged into this,” he said.