Kari's Reckoning (The Rose Shield Book 4)

by D. Wallace Peach

  They’d left Ava-Grea the same day they’d arrived and spent a week on the river. He’d promoted one of his lieutenants to captain and left thirty men under his command in the doyen’s city, a slight adjustment increasing his force in the royal tiers. A hundred and seventy men debarked in Elan-Sia and his frustration with Guardian’s isolation returned tenfold, his pitiful presence underwhelming and likely to doom them all.

  “Tavor!” He shouted over the wind. “Quarter forty on the second tier, forty on the third with the city guard, and forty on the eighth. Distribute bows and quivers and make sure we’re prepared to loose a hail of arrows if the need arises. Nordin, the last forty men are with us on the nineteenth. Send a messenger up to notify the queen of our arrival.”

  The two officers attended to their tasks, and by the next bell, Jagur entered the queen’s hall with Nordin and a score of warriors in dripping greens. Luminescent lanterns hung from sconces melted into the Founder-made walls and bright tubes coursed overhead. Light dappled new banners depicting a world of waves and waterdragons, tall-masted ships and craggy shores. They were engrossing and unwelcome. The warmth venting from the pylons contrasted with the icy rain pelting the windows.

  The queen rose from her seat on the dais, a regal, ringleted child half his age and ill-equipped for the brutal reality of rule. Lelaine might boast brains and bravery, but she desired a just reign, her choices and actions swayed by idealists: Gannon, Whitt, Catling, himself if forced to admit it. Perhaps her father in his prime had proved the more artful ruler—cajoling, manipulative, bribing, and aggressive, playing his friends and adversaries like pieces on a board.

  Jagur bowed. “Your Grace.”

  “Commander Jagur.” She smiled. “We received word from Ava-Grea of your journey north and have been eager for your arrival. I fear we have no new word regarding Vianne.” She gestured to the table of standing councilors and guests. “I believe you’ve met everyone here except Shipmaster Emer Tilkon, the Shiplord’s emissary to Elan-Sia.”

  A servant offered to take Jagur’s dripping cloak, and he shrugged it off, revealing the full garb of a warrior: leather breastplate, slung baldric and a skirt of scalloped tasset plates. Vambraces sheathed his forearms, and a short sword hung at his belt. He and his men were clad for war.

  Those seated around the table noticed. Gannon gave him an almost imperceptible nod. The councilors scarcely breathed, their faces the pallor of ash. Jagur observed the healthy contingent of Queen’s Guardsmen, Colton’s tense jaw, Catling’s attention riveted on the Cull Tarr shipmaster.

  Jagur turned last to the woman in question, the only one who appeared unconcerned with the virulence in the air. She made no secret of her curves or her power and looked to him like a woman unused to being crossed. She held her chin high, dark hair cropped above her ears, a slight curl to her upper lip. “Founders bless you, Commander.”

  His eyes narrowing, Jagur grunted. “Let’s dispel with formalities and pretenses. I received a bird from Vianne-Ava sent on the night of her disappearance warning of Cull Tarr aggression. I will assume the gist of this is understood by all present.”

  Tilkon arched her eyebrows. “The Shiplord wishes to avoid confrontation, Commander. He desires peace and unity.”

  “He has a strange way of showing it, Shipmaster. You have nearly twenty-five ships ringing Elan-Sia, and a doyen went missing the night she warns of an invasion.”

  The councilors backed away from the table, and Gannon retreated to stand beside Catling and the queen’s chair.

  Tilkon’s jaw tightened, and Jagur waited for her controlled exterior to crack. “We’re seafarers, Commander. We live on ships. The Cull Tarr seek trade, alliances, fulfillment of the Founders’ vision.” She faced the queen and bowed. “You have nothing to fear from the Shiplord, Your Grace. He is guided by faith and law, and righteous in all his decisions.”

  “What in Founders’ Hell does that mean?” Jagur rested a hand on his hilt, his threat clear.

  Tilkon faced him, her irises shards of iron. “It means, Commander, that Tull Airon is blessed with the Founders’ wisdom. His actions are sanctioned by the gods.”

  “Horse shit,” Jagur snapped. “You tell the Shiplord to ask the Founders where Vianne is hiding. While you’re having your conversation, you can also tell him to back his fleet out of the delta before I deem its presence an act of aggression. If he requires convincing, tell him an army of guardians just traveled the realm’s length to shoot burning arrows into his sails.”

  Tilkon narrowed her eyes and then bowed to the queen. “With your permission, Your Grace, I shall depart with the message as soon as the gale breaks.”

  “Acceptable.” Lelaine turned to Colton. “Please place a guard at the shipmaster’s door until she departs.”

  Colton issued orders, and Tilkon yielded to her escort from the hall. Every soul left behind exhaled a collective sigh, and Lelaine sank into her chair. “My thanks, Commander.”

  “It’s far from over, Your Grace.” Jagur patted his pockets and extracted his pipe, determined to calm the ire and grief rampaging through every cell of his body. He no longer doubted Vianne was dead. He also knew the Cull Tarr would attack and Elan-Sia would fall.

  Two days later, the storm broke.

  Chapter Six

  The blast hit without warning. A clap of thunder shattered glass, and a heartbeat later, the tiers echoed with screaming. The salon vibrated, and Catling tumbled to her knees, a hand grasping at the air for balance. A vase wobbled and smashed near her fingers. Last night’s wine goblets tipped, spilling the ruby dregs across the table. A stream dribbled off the edge and pooled like fresh blood on the floor.

  Lelaine clung to her chair. Gannon darted to the promenade doors as Colton barged into the room. “No, Gannon!”

  A second roar and the glass doors exploded inward. Gannon reeled, blood speckling his face. Lelaine lurched toward him and fell as a third strike pounded somewhere below.

  “Catapults,” Colton shouted and grabbed Lelaine’s arm, hauling her to her feet. “To the pylon.”

  “Gannon,” Lelaine cried, reaching for him, but Colton refused to let her go and pulled her through the door.

  Catling scrambled up and cringed at Gannon’s bloodied face as he found his feet. “Let me help you.”

  “I’m all right.” He snatched a wine-soaked handcloth from the table and gingerly dabbed his forehead and cheeks. He tossed aside the cloth and drew his dagger. “Get to the pylon with Lelaine. Use your key.”

  “Gannon!” Lelaine called from the corridor. Catling swung through the door. Colton hauled the reluctant queen toward the potted garden, and she dashed after them, Gannon close behind her. The tiers shook, and she reached out to the wall to steady herself.

  They ran into the garden, joined by a score of Queen’s Guards. Catling gazed up, the morning sun interred in a hazy shroud of fog. The wind blustered, brimming with Winterchill cold, and neither she nor the queen wore cloaks.

  Catling fingered the key dangling from the chain around her neck. When the pylon came into view, Colton veered toward the stairs. Catling followed, spared a glance back, and gasped. Fist-sized stones, small boulders, and shattered glass littered the tier’s floor around the crumpled alcove.

  The horrifying sounds of destruction juddered through her as another payload of rock slammed into the tiers. The city quaked as if the whole of Elan-Sia would wrench free of the bedrock, disintegrate and drown. She barreled down the stairs after Lelaine. Smoke blew across her nose, a scent foreign to the planet-warmed city. Flames danced beyond the tier’s rim, and she shouted to Colton, “The Cull Tarr ships are burning.”

  Jagur paced on the nineteenth tier, bellowing orders over the rail to the men below, who shouted them down the levels. On the eighth tier, archers dipped swathed arrowheads in pots of oil, lit them on fire, and shot down on the Cull Tarr ships.

  The commander turned at Catling’s voice and gestured to an officer. “Gather the men. We’re escorting
the queen.”

  “The lifts are damaged,” Colton said. “We’re on the stairs. They’re the only way down, and they’re jammed.”

  Jagur grunted an acknowledgment and faced Catling. “Use your influence to clear anyone in our path. We’re heading for the west docks.”

  “My influence is useless,” Catling said. “It doesn’t work on the Cull Tarr.”

  “It’s not only the Cull Tarr who’ll block our way. The queen’s our priority.” The Commander beckoned to Nordin and his guardians. “Let’s move.”

  Catling buried her dread and bounded down the coiling stairs, her heart on a rampage and body trembling with cold. The descent from the nineteenth tier seemed endless, and the farther down they traveled, the denser the crowds choking the promenades. City dwellers panicked, running and yelling orders, pushing aside those in their way. They jammed the steps, and somewhere ahead of the queen’s party, someone fell. Those above didn’t pause in their press, pushing on those below who then tripped over the downed bodies.

  Lelaine’s guards and Jagur’s warriors shouted and tried to clear a path, adding to the tumult. Catling swept them all with calm, and though the shoving stopped, the stairs remained impassable.

  “This way!” From nowhere, Gannon grabbed Catling’s sleeve and yanked. He followed Colton who pulled Lelaine through the crush to the edge of the staircase. Colton climbed the rail and jumped. Guards and guardians followed. They helped Lelaine climb the rail, lowered her by her wrists, and let go.

  Catling dropped next, landing in outreached hands. The guards swept her away after Lelaine, down another stair and over the rail. She couldn’t find Gannon or the commander in the mass of desperate Ellegeans. A payload of stone hit the tier above, smashing the windbreak. Glass showered down with the rocks onto the screaming throng.

  The queen’s defenders led them over the edge of another staircase. Two guards held Catling by her upper arms, rushing her forward. She tripped on debris by a riddled wall that slowly regained its shape, the dents smoothing before her eyes. The guards dragged her onto another clogged staircase. She didn’t know whether to calm the crowd or frighten them from Lelaine’s path. In the chaos, neither proved effective. She lost track of where they were, what tier they’d just abandoned. Her teeth chattered. Then the tide on the stair reversed, fleeing citizens shoving their way up the steps.

  “Cull Tarr,” Gannon shouted from somewhere to her left. Guards and guardians pushed ahead of her. The cries of battle rose with terrified screams. An arrow struck the man beside her, and he dragged on her arm as he fell. Another Queen’s Guardsman took his place.

  “Use the pylons!” she shouted above the din to Colton. “They’re repairing themselves.”

  He rubbed his forehead. “We’ll never get close.”

  “Not the lifts,” she yelled. “The maintenance pylon. I have a key.”

  Orders flew, and they abandoned the staircase, running for the nearest pylon. Catling slipped through the guards to the alcove and wrestled the key into the lock. The door whooshed open and warm air engulfed her. The guards and warriors entered first, and she followed the queen before the rest of the party filed in and shut the door behind them.

  “Gannon?” Lelaine twisted in Colton’s clutch. “Where’s Gannon?”

  Colton glanced back and caught Catling’s eye. “I don’t know, but Your Grace, you have to escape. He’ll find you.”

  “We must go, Lelaine.” Catling dosed her with a drop of courage blended with calm, and Lelaine nodded.

  Catling gripped the rail of the narrow ramp as they hurried down the coiled interior. Glass tubes gleamed with luminescence and lit the quiet space with an ethereal glow. She soaked in the rising heat and stilled her shivering. If not for the occasional tremble of the walls, she would have thought the bombardment ended.

  They reached the first tier. “Ready?” A Queen’s Guardsman opened the door. The sounds of battle and panicked flight hit her first, followed by the scent of smoke and acrid taste of fear.

  “To the ferry,” Colton ordered. “Now!” They streamed from the pylon. A secured ferry waited somewhere below. Two guardians hauled Catling through the first tier’s market, sprinting at a pace that barely allowed her feet to touch the floor.

  Ellegeans crammed the ramp, desperate to reach the dock and piers. She spotted Colton climbing again and disappearing over the rail, risking the long drop to the dock. Lelaine climbed next, blond ringlets floating as she plunged from sight. No time for hesitation, the guards dropped Catling over the edge.

  She landed with a gasp. Her chin knocked on a shoulder, and her teeth clamped down on her tongue. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, and she swallowed.

  The docks and piers roiled in the throes of madness. Cull Tarr jacks herded fleeing Ellegeans who shifted directions like a gusting wind. A cutter swamped before its sails unfurled, passengers abandoned and thrashing in the icy water. Catling stared, breathless, as men cut dories free of the pilings, their thwarts overloaded with terrified souls. Boats swirled uselessly out toward the sea, no oars or waterdragons to propel them against the current.

  “Catling!” Colton shouted. “Clear the way.” Two piers ahead a blockade of guardians protected a ferry, the rivermaster and crew awaiting the queen. Ellegeans pressed against the warriors’ staffs, ignoring the threat of blades as they fought to board. The mass of people formed an impenetrable wall. “Clear the way, Catling!” he demanded, his eyes hard. “Cull Tarr.”

  Catling spun. A wall of Cull Tarr jacks advanced, easily spotted in their scarlet colors. If Ellegeans choked their path, the jacks shoved them into the churning water.

  She swung back to the press of people between Lelaine and the ferry. Her influence blasted through them. The howl that filled the air curdled her blood, worse than the screams of fear as Cull Tarr stones pocked the walls. Pain flared in the men, women, and children barring her way. They crumpled and writhed, eyes wide with agony. They fell into the turbulent water or crawled with arms cradling their heads.

  “Go!” she yelled, a sob stealing her voice. She glanced behind her, the Cull Tarr slowed but advancing. “Go!”

  Colton dragged Lelaine through the thrashing, screaming bodies. Catling followed, her breath stolen from her lungs, hands and jaw trembling. When they reached the barricade of guardians, she switched her influence, sweeping the crowds behind her with pleasure and joy as she hustled to the deck. The ragged Ellegeans rose like the dead, the blockade of bodies cutting off the Cull Tarr who felt no such elation. Queen’s Guardsmen clambered onto the ferry while guardians maintained the line.

  “We have to wait for Gannon,” Lelaine ordered from the deck. Catling sank to a bench and wiped her bloody lips on her sleeve, no longer caring about the pain, her eyes on the Cull Tarr skudder gliding into view at the city’s arc. Long banks of oars pushed it through the flotilla of drifting vessels, swamping those who failed to escape its cutting bow.

  “No, Your Grace,” Colton stood over his queen. “This once I cannot obey.”

  ***

  From the first tier, Gannon watched the ferry push from the pier. Rivermasters harnessed waterdragons that rose from below at their mysterious summons. The ferry lurched, picked up speed, and careened south ahead of a skudder that failed to intercept them. He bit his lip and hoped Lelaine’s way was clear as she disappeared around Elan-Sia’s curve.

  Another blast shook the tiers, and he fought for balance while searching for the city’s defenders. The tiers were in chaos, ill-equipped for evacuation or war. The Cull Tarr invaders outnumbered the guard even with Guardian’s force counted among them. Below him on the docks, the Cull Tarr forced Ellegeans to kneel and flung them to the planking if they dared delay or bent too slowly. “Kneel to the Shiplord,” they shouted and stabbed those who refused.

  Smoke from burning ships engulfed him before blowing clear in a cold gust. His face stung from a score of cuts. Above him on the second tier’s lip, Jagur bellowed orders to his men. Gannon fo
ught through the throng to the ramp. Two Cull Tarr jacks raged through the crowd ahead of him, one cutting far too freely with this crimson knife. Gannon drove his blade into the man’s back, gave it a twist, and ducked into the roiling mass of bodies.

  Ellegeans knelt, the roar of the Cull Tarr overtaking the thunder of battle. Gannon wound a crooked path up the incline, stepping between those who knelt where a moment ago they’d stood, desperate to save their lives. He shoved his way to Jagur, shouting as he neared, “Commander, the battle’s lost. Time to retreat.”

  Jagur whirled on him, and for a heartbeat, Gannon thought the commander would punch him. “I’m staying.”

  “No, you’re not,” he growled in Jagur’s face. “You don’t know if Vianne is dead, and adding your men’s lives to this disaster isn’t going to bring her back.”

  The commander scowled, a fever of fury scaling his neck, but he couldn’t deny the truth in Gannon’s words or his taunting of death.

  “Trust me, we will find surer, more satisfying targets,” Gannon drove the words home. “We need to retreat.”

  Jagur barked a curse and roared, “Guardians! To the ferries! Retreat!”

  The exodus began. The guardians ahead of Gannon pushed through the confused crowd on the promenade, aiming for the south ramp. More men in greens joined, but the number less than half the total that had entered the city. “Where’s your signaler?”

  “Dead.” Jagur strode beside him, his men forming a protective ring. The Cull Tarr were subjugating the second tier, beating down the remaining resistance as they scaled the city. The men leading the retreat met the invaders. Gannon pushed toward the ramp with Jagur issuing commands and breaking any Cull Tarr heads that ventured within reach of his fists.

  They’d gathered near sixty men, a formidable cluster that drove the Cull Tarr ahead of them into retreat. Gannon assumed they circled around to block their way back. No retreat from the retreat. The south ramp lay ahead, the docks below, their transports guarded and waiting—he hoped.