“And if I asked it of you?” Aerona stepped forward, looking at each of her companions in turn. “There is so much that has happened since I defied my own consort. I knew then that my life was forfeit by Damian’s hands, not by gods and the mortals who served them. Isilia is a wasteland, the islands are ravaged, and soon Dalia and Trecht will burn each other to the ground. If we do not act, the realm will be naught but a charred wasteland. We cannot stop a war, not yet, but we can end the Darkness where it began. Whatever it costs, whoever we must trust, is that not worth it?”
Ashleigh spoke before long. “I have wished for naught more than to avenge Rafael. Yet when we trust these, these whatever they are, it is not them that perishes, but we do, and those we love. Fifteen thousand years they have struggled? What is different now?”
“This,” Aerona proclaimed as she withdrew the Heart of the Sand. Reuven did not move nor utter a word, and the high servitor stared in silence whilst her companions gazed in wonder and amazement, though it soon faded to doubt. “This is the Heart of the Sand. Light itself,” she looked to Ser Johnathan and the flicker in his eyes seemed to confirm it. “Lord Eldred may have Sariel’s power within him, but I shall have Gabriel’s.”
“It was Gabriel’s last gift to the sons and daughters of this land,” High Servitor Jophiel confirmed. “Safe in my keeping for near three hundred years. When Reuven chose to act, I gave it to him, so that the Bringer of Dawn might come upon it.” Then he looked to her three companions, spoke to them evenly, definitively. “Distrust me as you like. Do you mistrust her and the sacrifice she will make?”
Aerona’s companions looked to each other skeptically, then to her. Not once to the men from the empire. She thought they were deciding if she was worthy of their trust—again. She hoped they would take the plunge with her one last time.
Daniel spoke first, lighter, with some of his old mirth. “If you believe this is the way, Aerona, then I will walk it; for you, not for them,” He glared at the high servitor and Reuven in turn. “Bugger me if my men had heard such words. You were always right on these matters, girl; I always said as much to Damian. Bloody fool that he was for not listening.”
“Avenge him,” Ashleigh declared harshly. The thought chilled Aerona. “I will see that these brutes do their part. I shall do mine.”
Ser Johnathan did not bestir himself. He closed his eyes for half a minute, and the pain in his face slowly softened. “I never did want to go back into that mountain,” the old knight said reluctantly. “It was a living nightmare. Changes you, even if I was fortunate enough to live through it.” He sighed, and continued. “I will not let the young brace it alone. Ser Elin would be disappointed if I stepped aside.”
Settled. Even if it is the Heart of the Sand that moves them.
“Yeuil,” Reuven called out, and the Deathsworn scuttled from a station on the left side of the bridge. Aerona did not see her come in. “Return their weapons and see them fitted. Then, take them to the Chamber of Resonance.”
Yeuil bowed her head, and lead Daniel, Ashleigh, and Johnathan off the bridge amid muffled whispers and wayward looks.
“They will give you a reprieve, but when and for how long, I cannot say,” Reuven cautioned. “You will face Him; few have done that and yet lived. The Heart of the Sand is strong, but you must be stronger; otherwise it will consume you, as Ser Elin was consumed.” Reuven looked to his brother. “What have you learned that will help her?”
The high servitor shrugged his shoulders. “Little enough. Amos has not come to the temple, nor have my servitors discovered any trace of him. He was not in Edren?” Reuven shook his head, and the high servitor continued. “He is not far, wherever he dwells.”
“Will he come to Isilia? Will we have to face him?” It seemed like a foolish question to ask these First Born, but Aerona wanted to know. The Dark Brotherhood and Lord Eldred were concerns, and yet so was Amos. One must always know the foe before attacking. All of them.
“Amos is mine, Aerona,” Reuven said intently. “I have long since wanted the blood of the Betrayer. Should he appear, Jophiel will know of it, and I shall end fifteen thousand years of anguish. Do not concern yourself with him.”
By the consternation on his face, Aerona knew Reuven’s blade would be stained with crimson.
“We will do our part,” the high servitor soothed. “See to yours.”
“We ask much of you, Aerona Harkan,” Reuven said, recovering himself. “None have asked more. Our fate. All of us here. Dalians, Trechtians, and those in the Mazain Empire who have not given into despair. All of us are in your hands now. Seize the Light. Banish the Darkness.”
Aerona turned and stepped to the front rail, and leaned forward. Every man and woman turned to her; and she could feel the gaze of the First Born upon her.
In a voice that she had not used since the days of her Brood, she commanded: “Take me to the Darkness Rising.”
Chapter Twenty
Upon the Northern Fields
Lutessa awoke to death.
The oculus of her tent revealed a dark grey sky. Scents of smoke and sulfur wafted through the billowing tent flaps, and the groans of the sick and dying filled her ears.
She rose from her pallet, and nodded to three young lads, heads drooped but alert. They retrieved her plate mail and strapped it on dutifully and silently. She did not utter a word to them, nor did they incline their eyes. She was alone in her thoughts.
The Mother’s Pilgrim is gone, Rachel so far beyond, and my knights, no, they were never my own. Mother God, give me the strength to do some good.
Half of the plate was strapped on when Ser Jarl pulled back the tent flap and walked in. His face was creased, his eyes drooped, and the smear of dirt and blood clung to the few patches of unbroken skin. The commandant glared at the boys, but did not dismiss them. “I cannot convince you otherwise, High Priestess?”
“I will not hide and cower, Ser Jarl,” she replied while the boys clapped the lower arm guards on. “If you told it true, we shall not last much longer. Even your Faithsworn are losing heart. No, I will not stand behind the lines. Dalians and Trechtians alike will see the Voice upon the northern fields. This ends with my death—or theirs.”
Ser Jarl clenched his fists. “Ser Rupert Duvan and Lady Sophia Locklet will have command of your guard. They know your mind, but do not be a fool. We cannot return home without you.”
Lutessa flexed her gauntleted fingers, ignoring the commandant’s impudence. “None of us are returning home, Ser Jarl. I may have done little but sit Crystal Throne, though I know defeat when I see it.”
“Out!” he roared. The squires looked to the commandant expectantly, but then he shouted even louder. “I said out, pissants!”
One lad dropped her plate helmet before he scurried out behind the other lad. “Ser Jarl—”
“No! You do not utter those words ever again! Voice or not, it will be the last words you breathe.”
Lutessa bristled and said unkindly, “If you think to—”
“I think to keep us strong. Not all of us have given up on hope, Lutessa.”
“Have you?”
Ser Jarl circled around, picked up the disregarded helm, turned it in his hands, and thrust it towards her. “I had thought my service to the theocracy long ended. When Ser Elin fell, so did I. Never regretted a thing I did. I was there in Zelen. I heaped the bodies into the church, dressed them up. A thing like that changes you. We did a terrible thing, but the Trechtians fell for it. It was a slaughter.
“Before that, little of the war looked promising. Ser Elin would never say it, but I saw it in his bloody face. Lord Commander Rafael Azail was no different. They both put on a strong face.”
Lutessa felt her blood curdle. “I will never sin as he did, not even if it meant victory.”
“Nor would I ask it of you. Much can change. More than you can understand. Put on a strong face for the men and women who fight for you, believe in you. No one out there thinks you are Ser Elin.
No one wants you to be. Hope. That is what they want. They want you to be their hope, as you once were.”
Rachel, Mother’s Pilgrim, without you, there is no hope. I was never strong enough alone. “Where is our hope, Ser Jarl?” she asked. “What is it that we can say to the dead and dying? What words could assuage the downtrodden? Hope has long left us.”
The commandant paced the room and looked to the flap, as if he was listening for the scuttle of feet. “No lie was contained in the missive. Prince Adreyu is truly dead.”
If that is true then could—
“That is not hope.” Lutessa declared flatly, refusing to give in to the commandant’s delusions.
Ser Jarl’s gaze was fierce. “Prince Adonis is no tactician. Does not have the stomach for battle. Took some time, but we beat out of these knights that King Tristifer commands. Prince Adreyu lead the coup against his father. King Tristifer spent his days plotting and scheming. He will be a desperate man. We wait, we hold out, and they will crumble. Time. Time is what we need—and you can give us that.”
Lutessa knew very little of war and tactics; of late she was more intent on footwork and combat forms. What concerned her was the truth of that missive: the declaration of war. She wrestled with the lies that the king had laid at her feet, but dismissed it all on account that Stephen Francis was dead. She watched him die. She presided over his funeral.
She also knew that King Tristifer was many things, but not a war monger. The last invasion was the will of his father—King Marcus Marcanas—all in pursuit of Gabriel’s Gift. Since then, affairs were warm between Dalia and Trecht. They were no friends, but not enemies. For the king to go to war again, he had to be convinced that Dalia was to blame.
So Stephen Francis is alive.
“Lutessa?” Ser Jarl asked. “The Faith is not dead, not yet.”
“Yes, not dead,” Lutessa replied weakly. “Ser Jarl, what of Stephen Francis?”
The commandant could not hide his disgust. “No one knows aught. When we rout King Tristifer, we will make him talk.”
To do that then you will need—
“Then why attempt to dissuade me?” Lutessa asked, bristling.
Ser Jarl had a bemused look on his face. “Did not want to waste my knights on a girl’s whims.”
Lutessa scowled, slammed her helmet on, and strode out of the tent, leaving the commandant behind.
The air was hot and thick on the northern fields, and the din of shuffling feet and frantic shouts was in the air. The whinnying of horses and the grunts of stable hands drew her attention. It was as Ser Jarl had said: Lady Sophia Locklet and Ser Rupert Duvan stood tall and proud, arms crossed, visors down, surrounded by eight other Faithsworn: big men and women, well-muscled, and she suspected piercing, judgmental eyes, even if they were but the tiniest of slits.
“You are to ward me,” Lutessa said to no one and all of them. “But do not stay my sword or retreat against my will. This is our last stand. Life without victory is meaningless.”
Ser Rupert turned slightly to his left, nodded, and a lanky, grimy lad led an armoured silver horse barded with crystalline plate. Her mane was thick and lush, and her eyes were dark and piercing. Lutessa put her left foot into the stirrup, and hoisted herself up effortlessly. The Faithsworn gaped before following in turn.
Though I am not Justine, I am not weak and frail.
Lady Sophia lead the company to a gallop, followed by Ser Rupert, whilst the others surrounded Lutessa and followed behind. Ser Jarl had watched the proceeding, while barking orders to those that remained.
The retinue struck east and north through the camp, though the weak and injured did not stir when she passed. Like as much they did not know me from another Faithsworn. Lutessa was unduly grateful: she wanted them to believe that she had never left the field of fire and blood; that through the darkest and grimmest of mornings, she had been unwavering in the cause. It is not true, but it is better that they believe it.
Clear of the camp, she crested a low hill, and atop it stood four Faithsworn with swords drawn. They seemed unsettled as the battle unfolded.
“Report and be quick about it,” Lady Sophia demanded of them.
The captain raised a visor and revealed a scarred, worn face of a man who had seen too much. “Our Voice’s company,” he said softly whilst pointing towards the screams and clash of steel. “The middle column holds. Ser Danver will not let them pass. The right column has suffered losses, but holds. Look to the left,” he pointed towards a thick copse of trees before dammed rivulets of the dead and dying. “We have lost more ground than we can count. They hid in the trees, but their archers were picking us off as we were no more than rabbits come out of our holes. We sent countless companies down and around the forest, but they come out just as dead. It is holding, but not for long. We will be overwhelmed soon—or dead—when their column tightens the vise.”
“You would send the Voice, there?” Lady Sophia asked, bristling.
“If we do not gain the forest back, the column will be lost. Ser Danver cannot hold them back on two fronts.”
“To the forests, then,” Lutessa spoke up, annoyed. “The column cannot fall.”
Lutessa followed Lady Sophia as she led back towards the camp before turning west, weaving in and out of low rising hills, steering further away from the forest, before coming closer to it. When it was no more than two hundred yards away, she called for a stop and ordered a dismount. Lutessa drew her steel, and followed the Faithsworn as they hunched close to the ground, slowly moving to the north-east.
Though she was surrounded by men and women who swore their fealty, she was frightened; a fear gripped her that she had never felt before. The ground rose and fell slightly, but it was flat, with knee tall grass and vegetation. She did not think that the Trechtians had pushed to the southern reaches of the forest, but if they had, they would be defenseless. The only solace was that the smell of the dead and dying was notably absent.
Lutessa tried to clear her mind and remain intent on every step in front of her, while repeating the lessons of swordplay. Low to the ground. Sword arm raised and fluid. The eyes lie—only the blur of steel matters. Guard the breaks in your plate, and reach for theirs. Pierce, do not slash. Protect yourself before considering a deathblow. She repeated the words over and over. Then, she heard murmurings from those around her, and noticed shaky steps from the men and women.
The tree line was no more than twenty yards out, and Lady Sophia pointed and ran off sprinting. Lutessa followed, before hiding in the thick foliage, and she listened intently for any sound. There was none; not even the chirpings of birds or wild beasts. After a time, Ser Rupert grouped them off, and pointed in several directions. He was with her, along with another who did not raise a visor.
Ser Rupert lead north by east. Lutessa kept her eyes on the ground, stepping around fallen branches, trying to settle on open swaths of grass. The other two Faithsworn seemed to do the same. There was a clink-clink as they moved in the crystalline plate, but she did not hear any other noise.
The further she moved into the thicket, the hotter the air seemed. She took deep breaths, and was careful not to make too much noise. Her fingers twitched around the hilt of her sword, eager to swing it. Ser Rupert appeared calm and stoic; the other Faithsworn seemed more like her. Not unbloodied, but scared and frightened.
Ser Rupert suddenly called for a halt amidst the dense wood. He pointed to the north-east, beside a thick tree trunk. Lutessa thought it no more than darkness, but looking closer she could see shadows that seemed to move ever so slightly. The captain continued to point out the shadows in an arc, and it was undeniable that they were archers sitting and mulling, waiting for their allies to push further south. She gripped her weapon tightly.
Ser Rupert made hand signals towards the north-west. There was movement there, but Lutessa found it was too hard to see. He finished with a raised fist. When his fist thrust forward, she knew the battle would ensue.
She no long
er repeated the lessons of swordplay. She memorized where each foe was, looked to where her allies waited in silence, and picked the archer that she would slay. It was an odd sensation to her. For most of the years since she sat the Crystal Throne, men and women did this in her name. She knew it, too; she was never ignorant of the affairs of war. Yet to be in that moment, to be seconds away from bloodying her own weapon, it was a terror without comfort.
Then Ser Rupert’s fist thrust forward.
Lutessa charged forward, sword up. The once shadows moved suddenly as they fired wayward arrows towards an onrush. She did not hear any loud thumps or groans. The shadow she had picked out became flesh as the foe was nocking another arrow, but her blade sliced into the wooden bow, cleaving it in two. She swung her sword at the foe’s wrists, severing a hand that reached for a knife, before piercing her enemy’s neck.
Lutessa withdrew her sword quickly, and she felt an arrow deflect off the crystalline plate as she leapt to where it had come from. Ser Rupert was shouting at her, but she did not heed it. Her foe shot another arrow that she parried with her steel, before slicing through the leathers of the archer.
Then death rained from above.
Ser Rupert jumped in, throwing knives into the trees above, while Lutessa deflected what she could, before scurrying behind a tree for cover. The nameless Faithsworn took the bow and quiver from the first foe he had defeated, and returned a barrage. There were thumps of the dead falling quickly to the ground, and the hurried retreat further north.
“Pursue them!” Ser Rupert shouted out.
“Converge on them all!” It was Lady Sophia’s voice further away.
Lutessa followed behind Ser Rupert.
She weaved in and out of the forest, and jumped over roots and rocks. There was a pungent smell of rot in the air, and dark masses beneath.
The other companies did not get the jump on the Trechtians.
Darkness Rising (Ancient Vestiges Book 1) Page 71