“And what of your honor?” Jondralyn’s mount shifted under her. She clutched the reins. “I will be no party to a scheme cooked up behind my back.”
“What’s done is done,” Leif said. “This is how war is waged. We cannot just release him.”
“He has a right to his freedom.”
“He has taken part in slaughtering our people!” Leif shouted, disgust for her alive and livid behind his eyes.
Jondralyn knew she had been played for a fool. He’s never been concerned for my well-being, or the success of this mission. She had endured enough impertinent looks from those dark-rimmed eyes in the past. She would endure them no longer. “Then you, Leif, will duel him for his freedom,” she said.
“A duel?” Leif’s voice simmered. “To satisfy the whim of a princess?”
Jondralyn pulled her sword from its scabbard with a ring. Her mount shuffled under her again. “Then I will duel him,” she said, trying to gather her balance atop the horse, sword held high. Unable to completely bring her horse under control, she simply dismounted; awkwardly, though, and nearly falling. The flesh under her armor was rubbed so raw in places it stung with a fury with every move she made.
She tossed the reins to Culpa. Concern was etched on his face. “You should not make such a decision in the wake of emotion, Jon.”
“Worry not for me.” She turned to face Gault, standing squarely before him now.
Culpa said, “The man is a battle-tested knight.”
Jondralyn whirled, eyes flashing with anger and boldness. “I killed Anjk Bourbon,” she said forcefully. “I too am battle-tested.” She knew that despite her gender, she cut a sharp figure in her armor. She looked every bit the warrior dressed in full battle gear. She made the three-fingered sign of the Laijon Cross over her heart and looked heavenward. She felt the strength of Laijon and the Blessed Mother Mia infuse her as she stood under the impassive gaze of the Laijon statue in the center of the town square so near. Laijon was watching over her now and approved of the rightness of her resolution.
The Sør Sevier man had roaming eyes, always watchful. But Jondralyn knew she could conquer this enemy. A glint of something approaching fear now appeared on the man’s face. What would they say about her in Amadon when she brought back the head of one of Aeros’ Knights Archaic? She would be hailed as a hero. She would have her sword swathed in real blood, drenched in glory. This man had taken part in the ten-year slaughter of two kingdoms. Many innocent deaths could be laid at his feet. Deaths that she could now avenge. The words of the Fourth Warrior Angel spoke to her now, the verse she was trying to think of last night. There is absolution in the lonely sword that slays. She held her sword up before Gault, motioning with it—motioning that the man should prepare for death.
“Jon.” Culpa tried to get her attention. “You have no helm.”
“Neither does the man before me. I fight as he fights. We are equal.”
“Let me fight in your stead.”
It wasn’t that Culpa offered to fight for her—it was the real tone of concern in his voice as he made the offer that stabbed at Jondralyn’s pride. She lowered her sword. I have trained with Hawkwood and Val-Draekin and the greatest oghul gladiator trainer in all the Five Isles. She looked up to the Laijon statue for reassurance. My destiny has already been laid out before me. I am one of the Warrior Angels! The Princess! The Harbinger!
“Let me fight in your stead,” Culpa repeated.
“Let her fight if that is what she wants, Ser Culpa,” Leif interjected. “Let Jondralyn Bronachell show her own quality before her brother’s army. It is what she has desired from the start. It is why she led us down here to begin with, to show her quality. Let her show us what grit and bravery are in her. Let her show us the hero she is.”
Jondralyn tore her eyes away from the statue. Nervousness gone, she cast a quick glance at Lord Kronnin’s Ocean Guard gathered around. Did they all think her incapable? She could read nothing in their posture, their eyes hidden within the dark chasms of their narrow eye slits. Only her own blank stare reflecting off their polished silver helms answered back. She had mustered the courage, steeled herself for this very moment. She looked back up to Laijon and the unquenchable, unconquerable fire in her bosom grew. I am one of the Five Warrior Angels and this man, this killer in Aeros’ army, this Gault Aulbrek, Knight Archaic of Sør Sevier, deserves a swift death!
“Clear a spot!” she shouted. “Form a circle around us!” As the knights backed their mounts away, forming a shallow ring, Jondralyn stood taller. The sword felt featherlight and finally fit her hand. She knew it would slay like crushing thunder. Her father would be proud of her now—prouder than he had ever been of Jovan. Like a bonfire, the spirits of both Laijon and the Blessed Mother Mia were burning in her bosom as never before. Confidence had never manifested itself so strongly within her as it was now.
She looked at Gault squarely. “I am Jondralyn Bronachell. I am in command of these men. It is clear that injustice has been done you. It is clear that that your fellow man, in conjunction with Leif, schemed to betray you. We will fight to settle the matter honorably. You have my word. My soldiers will let you go free if you are victorious. You will be allowed to go back to your own countrymen, go back to deal with those who’ve betrayed you in what manner you see fit.”
She turned and looked up at Leif atop his horse and said, “If I am killed, let no man lift a hand against this man.” Leif nodded, as did Culpa, the latter looking a bit pale.
She turned back to Gault. The bald man’s armor was well made, his sword long and steady in his hand; the sun gleamed off its edge with a brilliant flash of sunlight. He looked confident. Jondralyn shifted her own sword from hand to hand, now squaring up to the Sør Sevier knight, preparing herself—her sword melding with her hand, both becoming one instrument. In a way, Culpa was right about the power of a sword’s allure. There is absolution in the lonely sword that slays. Jondralyn repeated her favorite passage from The Way and Truth of Laijon in her mind again—words of the Fourth Warrior Angel. That the verse had come to her twice now after plaguing her all night was a telling sign. Laijon and Mia would guide her sword. Indeed, her standard-issue Silver Guard sword, as plain and utilitarian as it was, felt like lightning in her hand. Bow down thine merciful ear, dear Lord, Jondralyn repeated in her head. Other passages from The Way and Truth of Laijon now came to her in a flood. She recited them to herself. Wash me of mine iniquity. Cleanse me of mine own sin. Forgive all transgression. In thee, O Laijon, I place my trust. My rapturous sword is yours. It is bathed in glory.
Jondralyn struck first, aiming her initial blow at Gault’s head. But she was met by a stout parry that knocked her off balance. In a flash, the bald man’s sword bit through the air, slicing into the back of her neck.
She tried to duck aside, but found her armor splashed with blood. And when she put her hand to the back of her head, her fingers came away red and sticky. This wasn’t how it was meant to be. Despite the wind, the courtyard seemed unnaturally hot.
She didn’t even see the blow that ended it, but felt the impact of steel against the top of her forehead . . . and a flowering, tiny echo inside her brain that swallowed her up.
She knew she must be falling but never felt herself hit the ground.
* * *
There is but one Savior of our souls, Laijon. He it is who paid the butcher’s bill. He it is who paid for our sins on the Tree. He it is with whom we covenant to keep ourselves pure of all abominations, lest the wraiths and winged demons arise up again from the underworld and bring about our ruin.
—THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON
* * *
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
NAIL
21ST DAY OF THE MOURNING MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
RAVENKER, GUL KANA
It was noon, and Ravenker was a windy place, frightening and vacant.
Beer Mug, panting, tongue drooping lazily from his open mouth, padded along beside Nail. Scattered clouds painte
d parts of the town dark with eerie shadow. The crumpled wall that circled the inner part of town had a moat filled to the brim with marshy grass. Nail lagged behind the others, leading Dusty by the bit. Cantering along about a hundred paces ahead was Roguemoore, followed by Godwyn, Stefan, Liz Hen, and Dokie. Last was Hawkwood. All were cloaked and hooded, pretending to be villagers fleeing the might of the White Prince’s armies. None had noticed Nail falling behind, none but Beer Mug, who had joined him. Shawcroft’s satchel was still secured to Dusty’s back. The battle-ax, too. It clanked now and then under the canvas that covered it.
As he lumbered on, Nail noted that the streets of this strange new town were bounded on both sides by buildings, two, three, four stories high. Many were slender, crammed side by side, others separated by narrow alleys. Other than the Gallows Haven chapel, he’d never seen buildings so tall.
He untied Shawcroft’s satchel, fumbling at the leather ties and flap of the hidden compartment containing the note. Finding the note, he read:
The boy now bears the mark of the cross, the mark of the slave, and the mark of the beast. He has bathed in scarlet, bathed in blood.
That was it. Nail looked for something else, anything. The mark of the cross, the mark of the slave, the mark of the beast. He already knew about those. He looked at the scars—the mark of the cross on top of his right hand, the broken S brand of the slave on the underside of that same wrist. He pulled up the sleeve of his shirt, adjusted his plate armor, and examined the scars, from the mermaid on his bicep to the tattoo next to it—the tattoo Stefan had given him after the grayken hunt. Either of those could be the mark of the beast.
He has bathed in scarlet, bathed in blood. That made little sense. He was disheartened that the note offered no information on his parents.
He placed the note back into the satchel. A handful of dusty curs playing in the roadway stopped and watched as Roguemoore and the rest passed by. One dog barked. Soon all barked. Beer Mug’s ears pricked up. Nail noted a rumbling in the distance. The pack of dogs began running toward him. Chickens squawked as the dogs tore through their midst. The distant rumbling sound grew louder. Nail was familiar with the sound. Charging horses! The White Prince attacks the town and we’re in the middle of it! Beer Mug’s hackles bristled, and a low growl issued from somewhere deep within him as the rumbling cacophony of horses’ hooves grew deafening.
It sounded like Hawkwood was yelling his name as a mass of warhorses came boiling from a side street to his right—straight at him, all wearing the blue and white of Sør Sevier.
Dusty broke and bolted. Nail, reins wrapped around his hand, was hurled sideways as the pony ran off with a shambling gait. Over fifty war chargers thundered by, dust billowing in the wind. As Nail scrambled for safety, he lost hold of the reins, and the piebald barreled away with the pack of barking dogs, chickens squawking and flapping in their wake, satchel and battle-ax bouncing wildly. Dusty disappeared around a corner out of sight. Beer Mug took after her. Nail stumbled back as the last of the knights in blue and white went pouring around him.
One knight peeled away from the main group, doubled back, and now drifted toward Nail at a loping gait. A second knight also disengaged from the group, turning toward him too.
For all the dust swirling around, Nail couldn’t see any of his companions. He whirled and ran after Beer Mug and the pony. The two knights set heels to flanks and gave chase. Nail’s legs, stiff and sore, churned under him, the soft dirt of the roadway kicking up behind. His tattered breastplate clanked against his chest as he flung himself around the corner and saw Beer Mug and the piebald bolt down another side alley not fifty paces away. Nail sprinted. He rounded the bend after them and found himself in a small market square, a large sculpture of a raven above a dry fountain and pool at its center.
Ahead, in the roadway near the fountain, stood Dusty, a touch of wind stirring the dust under her legs. Beer Mug was there too. The piebald looked spooked, jittery. Nail lumbered forward, gasping for air, trying to calm her with a soft word as he approached. He caught a flash of blue and white from the corner of his eye.
The two Sør Sevier horsemen had caught up to him.
He scanned the small square for something to hide behind or a doorway to dash into. Beyond a few rocks and wooden planks lying against the fountain, there was nothing. The street was clear and all buildings boarded up.
One of the knights charged toward him. Fear fluttered in Nail’s chest. Dusty shambled away. Nail lurched after her, reaching for the battle-ax tied to her back. Seeing the pounding hooves of the warhorse bearing down, Nail dug under the canvas and pulled the ax free. Pain flared from somewhere deep within him, along the scars on his flesh.
Once again the surface of the ax seemed to cast a foggy blue glow. Wisps of smoky light leached from the metal in bright blue tendrils. It felt right in his hands—light as goose down floating.
In one smooth motion he whirled to meet his foe.
And felt a white-hot pain thunder through his shoulder as the flat of the knight’s longsword smashed into him, sending him sprawling to the ground, battle-ax spinning away. Dirt clawed at his face and arms as he rolled.
Beer Mug danced away from the charging horseman, slavering teeth striking at the knight’s steel-toed boots. Frightened, Dusty skittered down the road a ways and stopped. Nail tried to stand. Entangled in his own wobbly legs, he scrambled over the roadway for the ax on hands and knees.
The warhorse turned, dust puffing beneath its hooves as it trotted back toward Nail and reined up. A pole bearing the blue-and-white standard of Sør Sevier was in one of the knight’s hands, a longsword in the other. The Sør Sevier rider threw the standard to the ground and dismounted.
Weariness tore at Nail’s every limb as he crawled toward the ax. The knight planted the standard into the ground and brandished his sword, stalking toward Nail. Beer Mug snarled a challenge. Tall and ominous, the Sør Sevier man soon stood over Nail, armor glimmering in the sunlight. His face was hidden behind a war helm with unholy eye slits that bred darkness and death.
Nail gathered what strength he had and picked up the ax, climbed to his feet, and faced the knight. The weapon again felt unnaturally light in his hands.
What was natural, though, was the way his fingers felt at home gripped around the haft, perfectly balanced. And his feet were naturally braced in one of the many stances Shawcroft had drilled into him over the years.
The second knight reined up. Nail backed away, blood crawling through his veins. Ax at the ready, feet steady.
Beer Mug snarled menacingly. The first knight leveled his sword at the dog, reached up, and removed his helm. And Nail found himself face-to-face with Jenko Bruk.
At the sight of the baron’s son wearing the colors of the enemy, it was as if a great bloody ocean wave passed over Nail, spun him back in time within its whirling, frothing waters, and plopped him back down again roughly amongst the grayken bile and sharks and merfolk. Everything seemed changed, as if he were now seeing the world through completely different, red-hazed eyes.
“You’re wearing Sør Sevier armor?” The words spilled from his mouth in a rush.
“You left me to rot and die.” Jenko tossed the helmet aside. There was a glint in his eyes that was not welcoming. In fact, those eyes were dark, staring, and full of malice.
Nail wanted to ask about Ava, but Jenko’s sword was already slashing toward his head. Nail swung up with the massive blade of the ax and parried Jenko’s blow with ease. Jenko was thrown off balance while Nail set his stance again firm—the earlier red-hazed confusion instantly gone, replaced with a crystal-blue focus. He could feel something from the ax transferring into him, some familiar rush of power.
When the baron’s son charged in again, Nail was ready. Footwork practiced and impeccable, he stepped into Jenko’s hurried blow and met it headlong with a perfect, crushing swing. Jenko’s sword was turned aside with a hollow clang and the follow-through brought Nail’s battle-ax arcing up and ar
ound high and to the left. Like he’d performed a million times in the mines, he brought the ax swinging back around to the right, crashing into Jenko’s return attack mid-swing, making the sword in the baron’s son’s hands quiver. Just like swinging a pick in the mines, only Jenko’s sword wasn’t unyielding stone.
Nail pressed the attack. One perfectly placed swing and he sent the biting blade of the battle-ax past the guard of his foe, sinking it into the heavy armor just under Jenko’s ribs. The blade lodged there in the iron plate at least an inch or two deep.
As he would do with a pickax sunk in stone, Nail twisted the ax and raked back with all his might. The pointed horns of the curved ax head caught the hilt of Jenko’s sword and ripped it violently from his hands.
Jenko looked at once horrified and stunned, sword now lying in the dirt at his feet, a gash in his armor. Whether the baron’s son was bleeding underneath, Nail couldn’t tell. But Jenko’s eyes were now fixed on the gleam of the glorious weapon in Nail’s hand. Nail noticed it too. The fog of light emanating from the ax seemed to mist and flow in sinuous blue tendrils up his arms.
What he failed to notice was the other knight who had dismounted and was now joining the fray. Nail threw himself to the side as the second knight’s blade glanced off his iron chest plate. The ax was jarred from his hands as he fell heavily to the dirt, body numb with pain, breath now gone. The knight quickly kicked the ax away from Nail’s reaching hand. Then his sword seemed to quiver and sing with a thin, keening noise as he brought it up for another blow.
“Mancellor, stop!” a commanding voice yelled.
Cursing himself for losing the ax, Nail, flat on the ground, saw a third man, a dark-haired man in pearl-colored armor, riding up behind Jenko on a stallion made of midnight. The steed’s cold black coat glistened with an oily sheen, and the red of its eyes seemed feverish. Beer Mug cowered from the black horse. The man atop the beastly stallion wore a thin, cruel smile, his armor colorless A sword at his side was of a deep blue hue. It was like the armor and weaponry the White Prince had worn during the siege of Gallows Haven. But this man was not Aeros Raijael.
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