Sweat rolled down her forehead despite the cold fingers inching down her spine. She wanted to flee, but she had no control over her movement. Drifting a few feet above the ground she moved inexorably forward.
Bones bleached by Mandrigal’s rays formed a carpet that stretched for miles. Some were human. Others not. Skeletal fingers clutched old, rusted weapons, some sticking out of chest cavities, through skulls. Several sets of white pillars, at least fifty feet tall, sprouted from the ground. She frowned. Not pillars. More bones. Ribcages. She could not fathom what beast could be so large. Some of the bones rose in mounds that made her crane her neck to glimpse the summit.
Beyond the bone graveyard was a stretch of open land. A glittering road cut across it, broad enough to fit a dozen wagons across, and then disappeared over a hill. Peeking above the hill were the tops of two structures of metal or stone. She decided on metal from the way the sun glinted off them.
Another gust brought the smell again, worse this time, causing bile to rise in her throat. She recognized it. Once, her cousin Lumin had not been heard from for weeks. When she visited his house she found him dead, decaying. This was that stench multiplied a thousand fold.
With the wind came the repetitive, discordant tones. Louder. Recognizable. Ravens, crows, vultures. The combination of scent and sound made her shiver.
Aidah topped the rise and vomited. Below her, the expanse of sun-bleached bones changed. Desiccated and rotted corpses, marred by terrible wounds, replaced them. They spanned as far as she could see to her left and right. Weapons lay where they had fallen or jutted from the dead. Up ahead, the bodies abruptly stopped.
Carrion birds feasted. Furred animals with hanging jowls and long snouts slunk among them, not partaking of the dead, but trying to snag a bird, some with success. The ravens and their counterparts swarmed into the air then, a wave of dark feathers and wings.
People picked their way through the battlefield, dressed in black, hooded robes. They were tall, spindly, movements lethargic. As Aidah watched, they dragged the dead to add to mounds of corpses. Smoke did rise in the air here, greasy and black and carrying the reek of burnt flesh. None of the people noticed her.
Beyond the corpses the glassy road continued on between a colonnade. On each side were statues that looked eerily similar to those of the Dominion. At the end of the columns rose the two structures, pillars a hundred feet high and half that apart. Lightning streaks danced between them, not vertically, but horizontally.
In flowing, pale blue garments, a lone figure stood before the pillars. When the person turned, Aidah gasped. The silver-haired woman beckoned to her and pointed at the space between the pillars where the lightning resonated. She mouthed one word this time. A word Aidah recognized.
Clara.
Aidah woke with a start. Dawn’s faded light streamed through the window. She took a deep breath and tried to clear the dream from her mind. The children’s laughter drew her attention. Nerisse and Clara were at the table playing in the midst of breakfast.
“I see you two are feeling better,” Aidah said, banishing her dream to her mind’s recesses.
“Mama,” Clara exclaimed. She leaped from her chair, ran to the bed, and climbed into Aidah’s arms.
“No dreams last night?” Aidah asked.
“Yes, but Auntie Teres was there, and you, and Neri also.” Clara leaned away, eyes searching Aidah’s face. “Auntie Teres showed me that I will be well, that I shouldn’t fear the taker. You mustn’t worry, Mama. Papa and Gaston are watching over me.” Clara smiled the sweetest smile.
“That’s great news,” Aidah said despite the heavy heart brought on by Clara’s words. “Come, let’s eat, I’m famished.” She led Clara to the table and nodded to Nerisse. “What of your dreams?”
“None for me. I slept like an old drunk,” Nerisse said. Clara stopped and gave her sister a dubious smirk. “Don’t you start.” Nerisse waggled her finger, to which Clara made a face and climbed up into her chair.
Aidah considered pursuing the matter before deciding to leave it alone. Discussions about dreams could wait. They sat and ate and talked of old times, even laughing when it came to stories of Gaston or Kesta. Aidah wished this simple moment could last for eternity.
“What’s wrong, Mama, why are you crying?” Clara asked.
Aidah dabbed at her eyes. She almost said it was nothing. “I’m crying because sometimes it takes the worst of situations for us to appreciate the little things we took for granted.”
“Oh.” Clara frowned, too young to understand what Aidah meant.
After breakfast Aidah went down to the tavern’s sitting room and searched among its book collection. She returned with The Forever Princess, one of the children’s favorite tales. She smiled as she pictured Kesta reading the story, his voice changing in pitch, the girls squealing in delight, and Gaston enraptured by the tale.
The story was of a Dracodar Princess, Yisenja, in the days before the Blight ravaged the world, when the Dracodar were still Mareshna’s sole rulers, and humans were little more than servants. Yisenja fell in love with a human poet, Larensen. Forced to meet in secret because neither human nor Dracodar society would accept such a coupling under normal circumstances, they were eventually discovered by Yisenja’s father, King Rahshil the First. Enraged that a member of such an inferior species would dare touch his progeny, Rahshil sentenced Larensen to the fighting pits.
Driven by the need to see his love, Larensen excelled in the pits. Before each fight he would craft a new poem about Yisenja and recite during the battle. Eventually, he did the unthinkable and claimed a spot in Far’an Senjin—the Game of Souls at that time being an actual competition among warriors in the great arenas. The prize for that year’s winner was Yisenja’s hand.
Larensen won; Rahshil tried to have him killed and failed. The two lovers eloped, chased by the king’s assassins who Larensen defeated at every turn. Rahshil disowned his daughter, but it did not matter to her. All she needed in life was Larensen. The story claimed they fled to the light at the end of the world, never to be heard from again, but forever in each other’s arms.
Remembering the tale made Aidah smile. She could picture herself as Yisenja, such was the love she felt for Kesta. Sighing, she made her way upstairs to the children.
Aidah wanted the happiness she’d discovered with the children to last as long as possible, even if the joy was just a scab over an infected wound. She had them remain in Monere for the next two days despite the protests of Aran and Lomin. They left on the morning of the third day, the children refreshed and vibrant.
Raindrops the size of pebbles pelted them a day after they left Monere. Pregnant, grey clouds marched across the sky. Aidah sat at the back of the wagon, staring out at the deluge, inhaling the fresh scents. Lomin cursed the rain, but she pointed out that it could be worse; it could’ve been a snowstorm. They were known to arrive early, sometimes an entire month before winter began. Coupled with the absence of threats since Torens and their proximity to Melanil, the rain was a blessing. Hazline was with them. Aidah leaned to the side, a slow smile spreading across her face.
Someone cried out. Thunder bellowed heartbeats later, a roar that echoed three distinct times before stretching to silence. Aidah started. A horse whinnied, and then came a splash.
Another cry. The thunder came again. A thud followed a moment later.
Aidah eased aside the canvas and squinted out into the dank gray sheet of rain. Two guards who rode with Aran’s wagon lay on the ground, one partially submerged in a puddle. The muddy water slowly grew crimson. The wagon jarred to a halt.
“Mother,” Nerisse called, voice thick with sleep “are we there?”
“No.” Lomin crouched in the opening at the front of the wagon, his body silhouetted by dim light. “We are under attack. Seems that our stop cost us.”
To Dance with Thunder
Heart racing, Aidah scrambled away from the opening in the canvas. When she was close to the children, she turned, half expecting someone to come leaping into the wagon. She squeezed her eyes shut and willed her heart to slow when no one did. It became a steady thump, loud in her own ears.
“Mama,” Clara whimpered. The little girl’s eyes were wide with fear.
Aidah made her way to her daughter’s side. She meant to tell Clara all would be well, but Clara would know she was lying. Instead, Aidah held her.
Nerisse was on one knee, squinting out into the rain. The air seemed to crackle around her. “Melders?”
“At least one,” Lomin said. “Wait here a moment.” He eased between their belongings to the far side of the wagon. A metallic glint appeared in his hand, a swishing sound followed, and then dim light leaked through the cut he’d made. The Blade slipped out into the rain.
Praying silently, Aidah held Clara in one arm while resting a hand on Nerisse’s leg. She felt the tension in her older daughter’s body. “Wait for him,” she urged, meeting her daughter’s hard eyes. “Whomever these people are, they must be more experienced than you.” Above the steady patter of raindrops she heard Lomin issue commands.
Nerisse shook off Aidah’s hand. “You know who they are as well as I do, Mother. They’re Ainslen’s hunters come to finish us. This is what Father prepared me for. It’s time you accepted it as so.”
Aidah winced. You knew this was coming from the day he first gave you the box, from the day you decided to take it from the storeroom, from when you allowed her to ingest it. It is too late to turn back now. Her course is set; let her sail it.
Despite her reasoning, Aidah still found it hard to reconcile herself with the risk. She could lose Nerisse, her true flesh and blood. Although she loved Clara like her own, the reality of that chance made her realize those emotions paled in comparison to what she felt for Nerisse. She was loath to admit the difference, but denial made it no less true.
“At least wait for him. Please.” Aidah’s insides churned as she uttered the words. Nerisse nodded stiffly.
Time stretched, filled with the drum of rain, Aidah’s swirling thoughts, racing heart, and their trembling breaths. The wind howled, gusts whipping at the canvas. Thunder rumbled, a low roll that made Aidah jump.
“Relax, Nerisse, I’m coming in,” Lomin said. A moment later he climbed back through the canvas. “We might have a way out for you three. Four men are dead, including Aran. All were positioned either to the front of the wagon or on the right side. Three died first. We can’t tell how, but the fourth was Moran. He died peeking around the corner next to us. He has a hole in his head that goes straight through. That tells me that at least one of our melders is of the Caster type. Which means he can’t be that far, perhaps five hundred feet at most.”
“So what do we do? How do we escape?” Aidah asked.
“We’ll put you three on horseback, create a diversion, and have you ride as fast as you can toward Melanil.”
Tears welled up in Aidah’s eyes. “That won’t work. Clara isn’t a good rider. She’ll fall for certain. And I’m not leaving without her.”
“Then we fight,” Nerisse said. A low peal of thunder echoed as if to add to her words.
“May the Dominion help us,” Aidah whispered.
“Indeed,” Lomin said. “Well, if we must fight, then I still want you three outside in case this Caster has any skill with fire. Follow me, and stay where I put you until the battle is done. If things should go bad for us, then the horses will still be an option. You can double with Clara. Now, follow me, and do as I say.”
Aidah and the girls put on their cloaks over their coats and climbed out after Lomin. He helped them down. She huddled into her cloak, its hood pulled over her head against the rain. Water pooled beneath her, and already she felt it soaking into her boots, numbing her feet. The cold made her glad for the wagon’s protection against the gusts that rattled its frame. The horses whinnied, tethered to the wagon bed near the byagas.
Two guards, Borin and Kitesh, were standing near the rear of the wagon. The other, Nartal, crouched with his back to the wheel, his face hidden by his hood. Three other armsmen, Morin, Gortans, and Pilmar, occupied similar spots beside the trailing wagon. Up on its bench, body slumped to one side, was Aran. The byagas waited patiently, heads bowed, water running in rivulets down their hides.
“Where’s Kazdra?” Lomin peered at the men hiding behind the other wagon.
“Tried to make a run for it,” Kitesh said. “Thought he could outflank the enemy.” The gap-toothed man pointed at a body sprawled in the field, barely discernible through the haze of rain. A horse stood near the dead man, nipping at a tuft of grass. “That’s as far as he got.”
“Did you see what the Caster used?”
“Looked like metal to me.”
“Metal?”
Kitesh nodded. “That’s what I said.”
“Only melders I know can use metal like that are those Farlanders,” Borin said, voice gruff. “Heard they’re not even Casters, at least not in the way we know them. They don’t harness a bit of their soul to fling at their target. Instead, they loose metal balls through some weapon they call a firestick. Makes that thunder you been hearing. They attach soul to the ball like an Alchemist would do to a target when he’s tracking. Somehow, they never miss.” Grimacing, Borin shook his head. “They cut down the King’s Blades like so much meat with those weapons.”
“Any idea of their range?” Lomin asked.
“Three, maybe four thousand feet, maybe more. Some claim a mile.”
“Nonsense,” Lomin said.
“I thought so until I saw one of them kill a dreg from over two thousand feet out. He was running too.”
“How are you certain this one has the same skill?”
“I told you,” Kitesh said, pausing, “my specialty is sight. With soul I can clearly see anything the size of a fist within three thousand feet. For another three hundred, I’m able to pick out a head. I peeked when Kazdra made his move. Didn’t see anyone within my second range, but well beyond, in my third, up on one of those hills, there was movement. A man brought something to his face. It flashed, like a spark from flint. Kazdra dropped a moment later, and then the thunder came.”
Aidah trembled as she listened to the two men. They both sounded as frightened as she felt. To think the earlier peals of thunder had been the death knell for Aran and the others made her swallow. Still clutching Clara’s hand she inched closer to Lomin. “Wh-what do we now? We can’t possibly use the horses.”
“I know. Let me think a moment.”
She wanted to tell him they didn’t have many moments left, but she knew he was well aware of their dilemma. Cold and trembling, she eased back toward Clara and Nerisse. Clara was wet and shaking. Aidah placed her cloak around Clara and drew her close, hoping to lend her some warmth.
“Kitesh, how many men did you see?” Lomin asked.
“Just the one.”
Brow wrinkled, Lomin stroked his beard. His hand stopped. “I’ll need a distraction from one of you that will unveil the enemy’s position when he attacks.” The three armsmen looked at each other, but none spoke up. “I’d prefer a volunteer, but I’ll pick if I must.”
“I guess it should be me, then,” Nartal said. The pudgy-faced man stood. “The third cycle is my specialty. No one here but you can make their nimbus harder than mine. I should be safe against this Farlander’s attack.”
Lomin nodded. “If you make it as far as Kazdra that should be enough.” He stepped up behind Kitesh and eased forward until he could peek around the corner. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Nartal faced outward into the rainstorm. For all of a second Aidah thought she saw a glow appear around his body, and then it was gone. The rain
fell harder, but oddly enough it did not touch Nartal. The drops struck a surface at least a foot away from his body. Water ran off the translucent covering like liquid pouring down a windowpane. The water runoff grew farther away from Nartal. He took a deep breath and bounded forward.
He’d gone some ten feet when he jerked, stumbled, and plunged head first into a puddle with a splash of water and mud. Thunder rolled. It echoed for a few moments before dwindling. Nartal did not move. Blood pooled beneath him.
Mouth open, Aidah stared. She never saw what hit the armsman, but he was dead. Dead before anyone could react.
“By the abyss, did anyone else see that?” Kitesh had a hand to his mouth. “That thing cut through his soul as if it was nothing. I’ve seen Nartal deflect swords, spears, arrows, practically anything sent his way. He’s even survived attacks by Blades. Tell me you at least saw where the melder is.”
Lomin shook his head. “It happened too fast.”
Nerisse strode forward. Aidah grabbed at her daughter’s arm, but Nerisse shrugged her off.
“I can create your distraction,” Nerisse said.
“No, Nerisse,” Aidah cried before anyone voiced an opinion. “You can’t do this. I’ve already lost one child. I can’t lose you, too. I will not.”
“Nerisse,” Lomin began, facing her.
“Don’t try to change my mind.” Nerisse’s voice shook for a moment before it firmed, became that of the girl who had ingested Dracodar soul in Garangal. Not once did she glance back at Aidah. “You said it before: these guards are all cyclers. Their abilities are limited. Unlike them, I can see the thread of soul connected to the metal ball and I can use my nimbus to avoid it, as I’m sure you can too. But it’s surprise you’re after, and there’s no way for you to get it if you come into this Farlander’s sight.” Lomin was still hesitant. She pointed at the corpses of Kazdra and Nartal. “Aren’t the dead enough to convince you?”
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