by Matthew Ward
“Why would he do that?”
“Why wouldn’t he?” With supreme effort, she steadied herself. “Did he make you as you are?”
Rosa reached out. “Sevaka—”
She shied away. “Answer me.”
Rosa’s brow creased. “No. At least, he says not.”
Bitter laughter hissed free. “And you believe him?”
“Not at first but…” She breathed deep. “He’s not as the tales say. He’s charming, even kind, and I think a little bit sad. No, that’s not the right word. More like the world is a joke he’s grown tired of. He came to Soraved to help.”
“The Raven. Help. Have you any idea how mad that sounds?”
“It’s only the start.” She paused. “He wants me to be his queen.”
“What?”
“That’s why he brought his revenants to Soraved. A suitor’s gift. A fraction of the dowry, he said, if I accepted his offer.” A smile flickered and faded. “I refused.”
Sevaka gaped, struck for words in the face of the unthinkable. But so much had changed since Ahrad. The demon at the gates. Otherworld’s revenants walking ephemeral soil. So many tales turned truth, and impossibilities made inevitable. “You refused. Why?”
Again, Rosa reached for her hand. This time, Sevaka let her take it. “My place is with you, not him. Whether for a day, or for a hundred lifetimes.” The smile faded. “Assuming you’ll still have me?”
Sevaka hesitated. It could still be a lie. A humiliation concocted for the Raven’s dubious pleasure. But if it weren’t, and she walked away, then she betrayed everything she’d said and done this past year. Who cared if the Raven were laughing? The heart wanted what the heart wanted, and the days were dark enough without smothering what light remained.
Careless of the rain, Sevaka broke cover and held Rosa close. The morning lost its chill.
“Is that a yes?” murmured Rosa.
“You forsook a god for me. ‘No’ would seem ungrateful.”
The embrace slackened. Its memory held the cold at bay. “Good, because we’ve work to do.”
Sevaka winced. “The shadowthorns?”
A nod. “Destroying the bridge at Galda barely slowed them. They’ll be at the walls before nightfall, and over them shortly after.”
“Even with the constructs?”
Vrasdavora boasted twelve operational kraikons and two dozen simarka – fussed over by Proctor Maldrath. The pass was too crooked for an attacker to bring catapults to bear against the walls, and an escalade by ladder and grapnel was a foolhardy proposition with untiring constructs upon the rampart – no matter how weary the defenders.
Rosa shook her head. “Thaldvar made mention of pale-witches, and one of the silver women from Ahrad. Ashana’s blessing drives out Lumestra’s magic. Our constructs will be no better than statues.”
“So we retreat without a fight?” Sevaka flung out a hand. “In this?”
“No. The gate’s solid, and the walls are thick. We’ve enough ballista-shot to make the shadowthorns wary about marching past. The way I see it, the longer they’re howling at us, that’s thousands of swords not cutting a swathe through the Marcher Lands.” Rosa shrugged. “Sometimes the calling is to die while others win elsewhere.”
“So there’s no hope for us?”
“Only if we keep fighting on the shadowthorns’ terms. I mean to change that.”
“How?”
Rosa crooked a vicious smile.
For all the thickness of Melanna’s cloak – for all the depth of her hood – still the rain wormed its way through armour and cloth to the flesh beneath. An hour in the saddle felt like days, red raw and shivering. Nor were her companions at greater ease, not if the soft litany of curses and fidgeting spoke true. Warriors and plenipotentiaries reduced to sullen children by the deluge. Only Elene seemed at ease. Melanna supposed mere rain troubled her no more than the miles she’d walked barefoot where the others had ridden.
Only the steep, forested escarpment to the south offered protection against the elements; to the north, the mountainside plunged through low clouds. And away to the west – past the thin screen of rain-soaked outriders on restless horses – a lone, dark figure stood at the bridge’s neck, arms folded, her threadbare hunter’s green tabard sodden black, and blonde hair matted across her scalp. Alone save for the horse tethered on the far bank.
Melanna drew back her hood and shook her hair free. “How long has she been there?”
“Our outriders first glimpsed her an hour ago.” Haldrane cut an inky figure atop his black mare, gloved and cloaked to the point where nothing showed of the man beneath. “Perhaps longer.”
Naradna grunted. “Sweep her from the road.”
“Her sword is at rest.” Rare disapproval danced beneath Sera’s words. “She offers to yield, and seeks surety for her followers.”
The Icansae prince’s horse stamped restlessly. “And is that our concern?”
“It used to be,” said Melanna.
She glanced back at the leading column of Immortals, archers and shieldsmen, outriders and cataphracts, hunched and miserable against the rain, save where the lunassera’s white robes added brilliance – and stared again to the west, to the sword point-down in the threadbare roadside sod. Beyond the bridge barely wide enough to take a cart – beyond the waterfall rushing from the southern crags and a frothing stream too broad for a horse to jump – the last bend before the sheer ascent to Vrasdavora. No coincidence in the meeting point, any more than the emissary’s identity was happenstance. Fate’s bleak humour.
“We once drew steel together. I’ll speak with her.”
Aeldran roused himself. “Is that wise, Ashanal?”
No, but it was owed. Not just by convention, but by fleeting comradeship. “She’s alone.”
“The trees at Soraved too seemed empty,” said Naradna. “Until the revenants came.”
“The Raven’s gaze dwells elsewhere.” Three days they’d shared a road, and Elene had spoken little. Reserved – almost timid – where Elspeth was all angry bravado. How different siblings could be. But these words, at least, she uttered with conviction. “You need not fear his wrath.”
“Then kill the woman, and have done,” said Naradna.
Haldrane offered a humourless chuckle. “You might find that harder than you believe, savir.”
Melanna wiped rain from her face to hide a wince, jealous of the mask that kept Naradna’s expression as guarded as his scars. Of course the spymaster knew the woman’s identity.
“I won’t shirk from killing, if called to it.” She swung from the saddle. “Haldrane, you’ll speak for my father in matters where I cannot.”
“Yes, savim.” He dismounted reluctantly, drew back his hood and stared moodily at the weeping skies.
“Elene, will you join us? You will speak for our mother.”
The daughter of the moon bobbed her head.
“This is a waste of time,” said Naradna, the words metallic beneath his beatific mask.
“Our warleader has spoken, brother,” chided Aeldran.
Yes, how different siblings could be. Naradna had questioned at every moment of the past three days: the order of march, a sentry’s watchwords – even the purpose of the pursuit itself. By contrast, Aeldran had offered nothing save support. One perceived her as an upstart to tradition, one as a warleader. One belonged to the past, the other to the future. If the rising Dark permitted any future at all.
With a last glance behind, Melanna set off for the bridge.
The black-robed shadowthorn’s eyes widened in surprise as the hand clamped across his mouth, then lost all expression as Thaldvar’s dagger took his throat. The borderer held the body close until the twitching ceased, then let it fall into the gorse. Sevaka, only a half-dozen paces distant through the trees, heard nothing. A hundred paces away down the escarpment the massed ranks of shadowthorns remained oblivious.
“Too close.” Thaldvar settled at Sevaka’s side, his back t
o the misshapen boulder and dagger abandoned as he fetched a dry bowstring from a pouch. Working by touch, his eyes never leaving the roadway, he bent the bow and set the string on its nocks. “Must be getting old.”
“You’re not alone.” The sweet scent of the late-flowering gorse caught at the back of Sevaka’s throat. “I’ve aged ten years this past week.”
She eased her head around the boulder. Grey-cloaked borderers and pavissionaires – the latter without the encumbrance of their eponymous shields – took position behind rock and tree. Bows were strung and crossbows readied. Proctor Maldrath – his gold robes abandoned in favour of plain jerkin, trews and cloak – toyed nervously with an amulet in the shape of a roaring lion’s head.
Bodies dotted among the gorse betrayed where other shadowthorns had fallen foul of borderers. One cry of alarm would have brought everything to ruin, but luck had held. The kind of fortune Sevaka suspected would always favour those who had Thaldvar at their side.
On the road below, three figures passed the line of shadowthorn outriders. One dark, one white, and another in golden scale. Three against one, and half a dozen Immortals within gallop of the bridge. Sevaka swallowed a frisson of alarm. Rosa knew the risks and her business both.
“Queen’s Ashes,” growled Thaldvar.
“What is it?”
“With the princessa. That’s Haldrane, the Emperor’s spymaster. As poisonous a serpent as ever lived.” His snarl bled away into a wolf’s grin. “And here he is, all unaware. Maybe Lumestra does love me, even in the rain.”
A glance along the slope confirmed Lieutenant Gavrida’s mismatched band was almost in position. Just a little longer.
“Remember why we’re here,” said Sevaka. “We can’t afford to waste arrows.”
Thaldvar grimaced. “At your command, captain.”
“Princessa.”
Melanna halted a dozen paces from the bridge – Haldrane and Elene a little behind, the former watchful, the latter distant. “Lady Orova. We’re a long way from Eskavord, where we stood together against the Sceadotha.”
“We are.”
Her face could have been a mask for all it revealed.
“And now I hear the Raven fights your battles. Have you no shame?”
Orova’s eyes tightened, then her mask snapped back into place. “The Raven does as he chooses. I won’t be beholden to the divine.”
A sour glance at Elene reinforced the message, but also offered an opening.
“Yes, we’re a long way from Eskavord,” said Melanna. “Further still from Tevar Flood, where I saved your life.”
A flicker of consternation revealed that Haldrane hadn’t known that detail. A rare lapse.
Orova’s brow wrinkled. “Explain.”
“The kernclaw. I drove him off.” The memory felt like it belonged to another woman. “Your companion was beyond help, but I asked the Goddess to heal you. You’re beholden to the divine, whether you wish it or not.”
Orova advanced, leaving her embedded sword a pace behind. She flexed her hands, rainwater pooling across upturned palms and trickling away along her sleeves.
“You. You did this to me?”
Her gaze, full of black, roiling spite, set Melanna reaching for her sword. She checked the motion and cursed herself for the display of weakness.
“I saved your life. As I seek to save it now.”
“I’ve seen the salvation you offer. At Ahrad. At Soraved. Just yesterday I saw Tregga ablaze on the horizon. You claim I consort with the Raven? You’ve glutted him this past week, princessa.”
The accusation, true for all its necessity, spurred Melanna closer. “Only out of need. The Dark has its roots deep in your people. It must be excised, or it will claim us all.”
“The Dark burned with Eskavord.”
“No.” Melanna sought stillness. Passion would not convince, nor anger born of shame. Only cold reason would serve. “It lives on through Lord Akadra. He is Droshna. A man-of-shadow. It spreads through him. I saw it with my own eyes. Not just at Eskavord, but after.”
Orova shook her head. “You’re not the first to come to me with tall tales of Lord Akadra. I try to learn from my mistakes.”
“You know him well. Can you honestly say you’ve witnessed no change? In his allies at council? His comrades of war? He can hide what he is, but not his influence over others.”
To Melanna’s horror, Orova laughed. “Lord Akadra never returned from the Southshires. He could have ruled the Republic, but he walked away. He lives alone and untroubled on some godforsaken hillside. Influence over others? He has none.”
Haldrane went rigid. Elene strode to Melanna’s side. For the first time in their brief association, her eyes seethed with anger. White light gathered about her hands and her brow.
“My mother believes otherwise.”
Orova’s lip curled. “The beliefs of the witch-goddess – or her kin – do not interest me.”
“Enough!” For the first time, Melanna wished there’d been a whisper of Dark about Orova. Better that, somehow, than for loyalty to blind her to the truth. “Lady Orova. You seek surety for your warriors. They will go free, provided they yield their arms. All save those tainted by the Dark, who will receive the mercy of—”
Orova shook her head. “You misunderstand, princessa. I’m not here to discuss our surrender, but yours. Once before, your father ceded battle to save your life. He’ll do so again.”
She spread her arms wide.
“Savim!”
Haldrane’s cry came a heartbeat before he shoved Melanna off her feet. An arm flung to cushion her fall twisted at the wrist, sparking pain along her forearm.
A whistling chorus pierced the rain. Haldrane bellowed and slewed to the road in a spray of water, hands clutched about the arrow in his thigh.
“Haldrane!”
Even as Melanna fought to stand, Elene splashed to her knees, chest transfixed by three arrows. Pale fingers dipped to the seeping black stain about the wounds. Then she pitched forward.
As her body struck the road, it burst apart in a spray of silver dust.
An Immortal slumped across his saddle, an arrow buried in his back. Dark figures appeared on the escarpment. The sky blackened. Aeldran’s shield, hoisted high above his head, bucked and shuddered.
“Treachery!” He wheeled his horse about. “Archers south!”
Another volley hissed home. Screams rang out. The whinny of panicked steeds. The cries of the dying. Barked orders as sorvidars sent men scrambling up a slope no horse could climb. Sporadic shots chased the hillside as archers of Icansae and Rhaled recovered their wits. Not one travelled the full distance, the arrows’ force sapped by sodden bowstrings.
“For Ahrad!”
The shout hammered out of the rain, fresh arrows in its wake. A Rhalesh archer pitched forward, his arrow skittering wildly away. A havildar on the lower slope spun about, a black shaft in his shoulder. Shots thumped into shields.
Naradna galloped past, already swinging down from the saddle. Scarlet Immortals flocked to the moonsilver-etched sword and plunged into the gorse-choked rocks behind.
“Andwar Brigantim! Icansae Brigantim!”
The lower escarpment filled with golden scale and drawn steel. Aeldran tallied the attackers among the trees. No more than a hundred. Enough to draw blood, but little more. The first volley had killed dozens, but with surprise lost and shields set?
It was only then that Aeldran took note of where that first volley had fallen. Not against the golden armour of Immortals, or the rugged leathers of the shieldsmen, but against white robes running crimson with diluted blood. Aeldran’s own blood ran cold at the sight, not that the enemy would dare strike at Ashana’s handmaidens – though that was bad enough – but because of why they would do such a thing.
“The lunassera! Shield the lunassera!”
Even as he bellowed the warning, the gorse of the middle slope awoke to fury. Bronze glinted among the thorns.
Melanna stagg
ered to her feet, lost in a fog of pain and fury. Numbed fingers found her sword’s grips on the third try. The blade swept free. She turned in time to see the punch, but an age too late to avoid it.
Vision rushed red and black. Then she was on her knees once more, the sword out of reach. Grey skies darkened with Orova’s shadow, the lying sword that had begged for parley again in her hand.
“Stay down, princessa. I’d rather take you whole.”
Screams echoed from the east. Panicked cries. Defiance. The unmistakeable thunder of bronze claws against stone. Victims of Orova’s treachery and Melanna’s guilty conscience.
“Oathbreaker!” Melanna screamed.
A second punch, heavy as a horse’s kick, drove her down.
“You dare?”
Orova’s boot lashed out. Melanna twisted. The grazing blow set teeth rattling.
“What of Jardon Krain, who came to you with a promise of peace?” A second kick buckled Melanna’s ribs and left her gasping. “Or Riego Noktza, assassinated by your demon? Or Emilia Sarravin and the soldiers of the 7th, slaughtered in the breach at Ahrad? If you seek honour in war, princessa, bring some of your own!”
Melanna rolled away from a third kick and spat blood. Orova’s fingers hooked beneath her golden helm and ripped it away. Steel pressed cold at Melanna’s neck.
“Yield. I’d sooner offer the Emperor his daughter than her corpse.”
Trembling with pain and failure, Melanna stared down at her grime-caked hands. No. Not grime, but Elene’s rain-eddied remains. And half-hidden beneath, the Daughter of the Moon’s silver dagger. Purpose kindled in her lungs, hot and rich and defiant, driving back the pain.
“I’ve fought all my life,” she gasped. “I won’t stop now.”
Deafened by her own scream of shame and fury, Melanna struck the sword aside and snatched up the dagger.
The simarka broke the vestigial shield wall at the roadway’s edge. A sturdier line formed east of Aeldran, but that was of little solace for those trapped beyond. Men died beneath the swipe of bronze claws, or with their throats ripped out. Swords skittered across the lions’ metal hides. The simarka fought not like men, but the beasts they resembled, caring nothing for formation or strategy, only the pursuit and slaughter of their prey, one death at a time.