by Alec Hutson
“What’s your name?” Nel asked soothingly.
“Marialle. My husband is Faris Devensorn. He’s away, bringing the goblin pears to market.” She swallowed. “There was an attack like this last summer, not two leagues from here, on the old brook road. Ser Willes’s son was murdered by some demon, and he was a knight. They say he was all cut to pieces, and that they were sending for the Pure to come hunt down what did it.” Her frightened eyes returned to the savaged paladin. “Oh, may Ama protect us.”
“He will,” Nel assured her, guiding her gently away from Senacus. “But first we have to save his chosen.”
This seemed to get through to the woman. “Yes,” she said, smoothing the rumples her hands had made in her dress. She turned to where her sons were peering from around the edge of the doorway. “Malkin. Go down to the cellar and bring up an armload of the bloodmoss we dug out of the swamp this fall. I’ll get a kettle of water going over the fire. I’ve some honey for the cuts – that should stop them from going black.” She blinked, looking around. “Where’s Dog?”
The smaller of the two boys had remained after his brother went to fetch what his mother requested, and he shuffled his feet like he’d done something wrong. “Back there,” he said, pointing towards the door. “Dog’s scared.”
That seemed to shake her again, but she mastered herself in front of her boy. “Maybe he smelled something. I don’t want you going outside, you hear?”
“I hear, Ma,” the boy whispered. He was staring at Senacus without blinking, his eyes round as coins.
“Good,” Marialle said, turning back to the paladin. “Ama’s light, I wish Goodwife Roesia was here. She’s got a healer’s touch, but she’s a half-day’s ride through the woods, up on the Hangman’s Knoll.”
“Do what you can,” Nel told her. “And we’ll help.”
“Right,” the woman said, rolling up her sleeves. “Best get to work.”
Marialle was more skilled than she claimed. Which made sense, Keilan realized. On an isolated farm, so far removed from a town or neighbors, someone would have to know how to treat wounds, set broken bones, and bring down fevers. First, she unwrapped the cloth strips – now stiff with crusted blood – Nel had used to staunch the bleeding. Then she cleaned the cuts, washing them with a pungent liquid she splashed from an earthenware jug. Keilan wasn’t sure, but he thought it might be urine. Senacus muttered and shifted in his sleep as Marialle and Nel worked, sometimes even forming words. Keilan heard his own name, and the paladin spoke harshly to someone called Demian, admonishing him for the wrongs he’d done. Finally, the wounds were washed out again with water boiled in the now-blazing hearth, the dry clumps of moss the farmer’s boys had brought up from the cellar were packed into the deepest cuts, and a salve was smeared over the ones that were shallower. Senacus drifted into a deep sleep after this, and though his face was pale and haggard it did seem like the pain had somewhat diminished.
Darkness had fallen by the time Marialle and Nel stepped away from the paladin. From their looks of grim satisfaction, they believed Senacus had made it through the worst and come out the other side. Alyanna had disappeared long ago, and Keilan thought she must have found a place to rest. She’d expended a tremendous amount of sorcery in her fight with the genthyaki, and then she’d kept them aloft for hours as they fled north. The power she wielded was daunting, but even she must have her limits.
Keilan and the two boys had watched the women labor to save Senacus, occasionally running to fetch a jar or bring more water. He’d tried to speak to Malkin, but the older boy had only offered up terse responses, refusing to meet Keilan’s eyes as he wrung his hands together nervously. Keilan did catch the boy stealing scared glances at his jeweled sword, and that’s when it had struck him: the boy thought he was a lord, and was too intimidated to even attempt a conversation. And yet in truth Keilan was the son of a poor fisherman, probably one of the few people to which the farmers of the Shattered Kingdoms felt themselves superior.
“Walk with me,” Nel said to Keilan, holding up hands coated with blood and unguent.
He trailed her outside, and together they followed the trickle of running water to a small stream behind the farmhouse. The night was cloudy, the moon reduced to a smear of pale yellow, and Keilan stumbled several times in the dark.
“Can we trust the sorceress?” Nel asked as she washed her hands, keeping her voice barely above a whisper.
Keilan cast a nervous glance back at the farmhouse, though he suspected he would sense if Alyanna was weaving some sorcery that allowed her to listen in on their conversation.
“I think so.”
“But she’s the one who attacked the Scholia. And you said you saw her long ago, in the vision you had of the sorcerers who destroyed the old empires.”
“Yes.”
“She’s a monster, then.”
Keilan crouched beside Nel. Something splashed in the stream, and he nearly jumped back before he realized Nel had thrown a stone.
“She did terrible things. And I don’t think she’s changed. But I was inside Jan’s mind, and I saw how he perceived her. Above all else, she is a survivor.” The clouds parted, the moon materializing in the water. Another rock plunked down, rippling the hazy reflection. “She said she knew the world might end. Somehow, she knows of the demon children, and that they want to bring about the future the Oracle showed us. She desires to stop them, I’m sure of it.”
“So we want the same thing. Do we tell her about the dagger?”
Keilan chewed on his lip, considering. “Let us keep it a secret for now. Until we’re sure she can be trusted.”
“I’m never going to trust her,” Nel said, standing. “And I won’t hesitate to put a knife in her if I have even the slightest suspicion that she’s going to sacrifice us for her own gain.” Keilan rose as well, joining her as she stared out at the blackness. “We don’t even know where she’s taking us.”
“Tomorrow we’ll get answers,” Keilan assured her.
The plaintive cry of a bird drifted from the forest. Was there any sound more sorrowful than a solitary bird begging for company in the darkness? Keilan felt the sadness he’d been trying to ignore start to rise.
Suddenly Nel’s fingers were lacing with his own. “How are you?” she asked softly, as if she could see into his thoughts.
Her touch made him shiver, and he had to force himself not to grab her hand more fiercely. “I loved Pelos,” he admitted, trying to keep his voice from breaking. “He was family.”
“I’m sorry. You have to hold tight to them in your heart, and wherever their spirits are, they’ll know they are not forgotten.”
There was something else as well, and it had been eating at his insides for days. He forced himself to speak of it, surprised by how difficult it was. “I killed a man, Nel. I stabbed him in the belly. It was . . . it was so easy. The look on his face when he realized he was dead. The terror. Like he was staring into a great abyss, and knew he couldn’t escape.” He swallowed, staring out into the darkness. “Is that what Pelos felt?”
“Don’t suffer over that man,” Nel said, the edge in her voice brooking no argument. “He was a soldier. His life was violence, and he knew very well it could end violently. We are trying to stop a cataclysm, and if others stand in our way, we will have to fight and kill.”
“That’s what Alyanna said.”
“You were confronted by a soldier with a sword who wanted to take you captive and give you to the inquisitors of Ama so that they could torture you to death. Alyanna, on the other hand, was willing to kill the family that just saved Senacus because they had something she wanted. You are not like her. We are not like her.”
She spat out these last words with a vehemence that surprised Keilan, then lapsed into silence. Keilan was quiet as well, concentrating on the feeling of her calloused hand in his.
“I’m scared,”
he told her suddenly, surprising himself, as he hadn’t known he was going to admit that.
“I’m scared, too,” Nel replied. “We’d be foolish not to be.”
“I’m not scared for myself,” Keilan continued, speaking quickly. “I’m scared for you. And Sella. And my da. Senacus is dying in there.”
“He’s not going to die,” Nel said firmly. “At least not tonight.”
“I’m scared what will happen if we don’t stop those demon children. And I’m scared that stopping them might depend on us.”
“I’m overwhelmed also, Keilan,” she said, giving his hand a comforting squeeze. “If I think about the enormity of what’s happening, I just lose hope. So I focus on only the next moment, the next task.”
“And what is that?”
“Bringing Niara’s dagger to the queen,” Nel said confidently. “It was what we were going to do before Chale. She has the strength to oppose all these monsters.” Keilan felt Nel twist around to stare back at the farmhouse. “And that includes her.”
“What if that is not Alyanna’s plan? What if she still considers the queen her enemy?”
Nel was quiet for a long moment. The bird in the forest trilled again, but this time there was an echo from somewhere else.
“Do you think you could use that flying circle?”
The ridge was already crowded by the time Willa finally arrived. Dozens of men and women milled about talking excitedly, though some reclined on chairs that poor servants must have lugged up the narrow switchback trail she’d just climbed. There was even a low table with a few pitchers of wine and bowls heaped with dry fruits, slices of salted meat, and an array of small pastries. The morning had all the makings of a lovely picnic. What a wonderful vantage from which to eat and drink and watch thousands of men hack each other to death below.
Scowling, Willa stumped towards one of the chairs. It was already occupied by a fat man with an oiled beard and beady black eyes, crumbs speckling the luxuriant fur lining of his robes. He looked at her with immense disinterest as she neared, then his gaze flicked away.
“The lady wishes to sit,” Telion said from his customary place a few steps behind her.
“The magister also wishes to sit,” the fat man drawled, not bothering to look at them.
Willa rapped his knee hard with the ebony sphere topping her cane and the man gave an aggrieved howl, his face purpling. He surged to his feet, his hands balled into fists.
“How dare you?” he hissed, looming over her.
She stared calmly up at him for a long moment, then brushed past him to slide into his vacated seat. The shock on his face almost made her crack a smile.
“Who do you think you are, crone?” he managed to say, despite nearly choking on his incredulous anger.
“It is the Crone,” said a new voice, and they all turned to find that the magister with the streak of silver in his hair had sauntered over. Vhelan smiled broadly and bowed to Willa. “The infamous Lady Numil of Lyr.”
“She wronged me!” spluttered the fat magister as Vhelan straightened.
“You should have given up your seat, Magister d’Kessen.”
“Take care, boy,” snarled the magister. “In Dymoria, those with gutter blood do not speak that way to their betters.”
“Quite right. But your noble name means little in the Scholia, which I must assume you’ve forgotten. And since our beloved queen has named me as senior magister, I am, in fact, your social better right now. As such, it would be perfectly within my rights to insist on punishment for your rudeness. But I would prefer it not have to come to that. What do you think?”
The fat magister paled before Vhelan’s dimpled smile. “Apologies, Magister Vhalus,” he muttered, and then slunk away towards the edge of the ridge, where a knot of magisters were gesturing at something below.
“You can see, Lady Numil,” Vhelan said smoothly, “as a commoner who once hailed from Lyr, I’ve encountered a bit of resentment about my new position from the Dymorian magisters with noble blood.”
“Vhalus is quite a powerful name in Lyr. More than a few archons have come from that house.”
Vhelan winked at her. “I think we both know, Lady, that I am as much a scion of the Vhalus clan as your good man here is a lost prince of the d’Karas.”
“I always suspected my da was not my real da,” Telion rumbled. “And I’ve heard it said the queen’s father did do a bit o’ adventuring in his day.”
“Oh yes, I do know you, Vhelan,” Willa said. “I remember several reports passing my desk about the young thief in the Warrens they called the Scholar. We try to cultivate good relationships with those individuals who might rise to prominence in the guilds. But before we could reach out, you vanished. We all thought you’d ended up stabbed in an alley, but finally word trickled back that you had been recruited to study at the Crimson Queen’s Scholia. And now here you are,” she spread her arms wide, “the youngest senior magister. We were right about your potential, it seems.”
Vhelan bowed low again. “It is an honor to know I warranted even the slightest sliver of your attention. The children in the Warren were terrified of you, as I’m sure you are aware. The all-seeing, all-knowing Lady Numil. She would creep on spider-legs into our sleeping places, the whispers said, and drag us away to drink our blood if we were not careful.”
Willa snorted. The inhabitants of the Warren would never have heard of the Lady Numil – Vhelan was being polite. She was the Crone to them, an apparition that haunted the Lyrish underworld. It was a legendary persona she had carefully cultivated over many decades.
The sound of a horn floated to her from over a great distance. Somehow she knew it was not wrought of silver and blown by a commander in the queen’s army. No, there was a wildness to this echoing blast – she heard the mountains and the trees and the roar of tumbling rivers. This was a horn carved of bone, she’d wager, ripped from the body of a beast that roamed the northern wastes.
Vhelan heard it as well, as his face suddenly grew serious. He looked over his shoulder to where the magisters were gathered at the edge of the ridge. Then he held out his hand to her. “Come, Lady Numil, let us see what these barbarians look like.”
“You did not join the queen when last she ventured into the Frostlands?” she asked, accepting Vhelan’s help and letting him gently pull her to her feet.
The magister shook his head. “None of us did. Queen Cein wanted to defeat the Skein without sorcery – she feared that if we used our magic openly, then the emperor of Menekar could use it as a justification for war.”
“This does not concern her now?” Willa asked as they moved to where they could see what was happening below.
“We are stronger than we were then. She has told me that she believes it is time we revealed ourselves to the world.”
Now that was an interesting little morsel, but she would have to set it aside for now, to be chewed on later. There were other things demanding her attention.
The battlefield chosen by Lord d’Chorn certainly seemed to play to the strengths of the Dymorian army. It was a wide, snowy plain, pocked by small copses of pine trees. A thick forest bounded it to the west, and to the east the rumpled ground eventually rose up into true mountains. The Dymorian pikemen had arrayed themselves between a pair of low, barren hills, and had spent the past two days digging pits and setting sharpened stakes in front of their position. Companies of archers crouched among the broken scree covering the hills, ready to rain down death. Behind the massed pikemen were yet more archers, as well as the heavy cavalry, which would be prepared to charge when the Skein attack faltered, or perhaps they would be used to harry the barbarians if they tried to flank the Dymorian position. Such an attempted maneuver by the Skein king would be known well in advance by d’Chorn, as the famed Dymorian rangers were abroad on their swift horses, tracking the movement of the Skein horde.
And then, of course, there were the magisters of the Scholia, enjoying their morning repast here with Willa. Far away from the fighting so no arrow could reach them, but apparently close enough that their sorcery could still strike down the barbarians. The path wending up to this ridge was narrow enough that a handful of men could hold it for days, and a contingent of Scarlet Guardsmen and Willa’s own Lyrish soldiers guarded the way.
It was an impressive force, far larger than the mercenary guilds Willa had seen fielded by the Gilded Cities in any of their conflicts. Only the padarasha of Kesh and the Empire of Swords and Flowers could muster such an army on this side of the Spine, and never had either of those great powers ventured this far north.
In the distance, across the snowy plain, the first of the Skein had appeared. They rode horses, stunted little things with shaggy manes, and they milled about with no apparent discipline. The men were little more than insects from this distance, but Willa imagined she saw great braided beards and long unbound hair. One rider galloped back and forth in front of the rest, and Willa saw him raise something to his lips. Soon after the sound of the horn came again, rolling across the plain.
“Less than I thought there would be,” Vhelan murmured, his fingers playing with the golden amulet he wore. Willa made a quick estimate, made difficult by how the warriors were constantly shifting, and came to only a few hundred at most.
“This is just the vanguard,” Telion said. “The first to arrive. That fellow there is letting the foot behind them know that they’ve seen us.”
“Well, we should charge them, yes?” said Vhelan, a nervous edge to his voice. “Smash them with our cavalry before the rest arrive.”
Telion cleared his throat noisily and spat, which Willa knew was his way of showing disagreement. “They’d turn tail once our horse came at ‘em. Lead us back to their main host and try to put us in range of their bows.”