He drew a breath, and few more, so he could speak without panting. He handed her the cup back for a refill. “Galbrait betrayed me. He is Ashen, has been all along.”
She stared, his cup forgotten in her hand. “What did he do?”
It would be all over Akrasia in a matter of a few Sevennights: the Prince who couldn’t be killed. “He and the Priest killed me. Or rather, they tried. I have a bit of a healing, er, magic. It tends to shake things up, quite literally. They stuck me with my own sword and tossed me into the Palisade. The earthquake broke the wall.”
Her brows climbed further, if possible. “That was you?”
“Heard about it, did you?” He went to fetch the wine from the page himself. She looked a Moonling half. The girl shrank back and flushed hotly, making the pale dapples stand out more against her reddened skin.
“I had scouts in the trees, Geffen said. “They came back and reported the Palisade had broken. I didn’t believe it and sent new scouts to confirm. They haven’t come back.”
They were probably dead. He took his cup back and poured. “We need to rally. We must attack now. The entire city is a battleground.”
Look at you. You’ve become quite the bloodlord. Calm under fire and all that.
No point in rushing off without all my arrows nocked.
Geffen spoke to her servant and sent her scuttling off toward the collection of mean little horsemarshals’ and company captains’ tents crammed in between broken pillars. In typical calvalry fashion, the horses had roomier, cleaner lodging than their riders, staked among the trees with grooms to serve them.
His commander showed him a good map of Auwaer while they waited on the horsemarshals and captains to gather. The city was a lopsided heptagon encircling a city center with a market and play houses, parks and the black Bastion rising from the pale grey stone like a blocky shadow. It was on a hill.
“What do you know about the Bastion?”
Geffen shrugged. “I’ve been to court a few times.”
“Any idea if there are escape tunnels under the hill and moat?”
“Wasn’t offered the grand tour. I never served at the Bastion proper.”
“Why not?”
“I believe I was too old to suit the King. I was definitely too married.”
He raised his brows at the implication. “Are you still?”
“He’s a drogher driver in the upper Eros.” She paused. “In the grasslands.”
“I know where Upper Eros is,” he said.
“He’s also Gadye,” she added. “We had special dispensation from priests at Reschan.”
He very carefully did not snort even though Reschanian priests were probably the least likely to have inroads with the gods about approving mixed marriages.
Horsemarshals and commanders were starting to file in, crowding the little space, some climbing up on the broken pillars and chunks of upheaved earth to see and hear him. He raised his voice and explained about the Palisade. No need for detail; rumor and taletellers would cover that. “Time is crucial. Look for Tyrolean. I think Galbrait might keep him close as personal insurance. Galbrait won’t know the city, nor where to hide. But Tyrolean will, and it’s likely he’ll do what he can to make himself easy to find. I’ll reward two hundred rare to whoever brings me Galbrait; a thousand if he is brought to me alive.”
“The Princess? Is she found?” someone else asked.
“Aarinnaie disappeared in the fighting. Keep an eye out but don’t go out of your way to search. She can handle herself.” A vast understatement. He couldn’t put a reward on her rescue because she’d like as fight it. Better if few knew what she was really capable of.
“And the Lord Mance?” Geffen asked.
Draken rubbed his chin. He felt grains of dirt caught in the bristles. His arms and bracers had an unnatural greyish hue, dust from the wreckage his healing had caused. “I have to believe Osias and Setia can look after themselves as well. Commander, divide and assign the troops as you see fit.”
He started to make his way through the captains and marshals. They made a jagged path for him to escape through. Most eyed him silently. A few saluted or dipped their chins.
“What will be your position, my lord?”
“My place is with the Queen.”
“You need guards.”
His guards were captured or dead. “I’ll travel quicker on my own.”
“My lord—”
He turned. “I’d like to someday find a commander who does not question my decisions. Do you think one possibly exists in this godsforsaken country?”
Geffen, to her credit, replied primly. “I wish you well, my lord, and godspeed to the Queen’s side.”
Bruche chuckled. Fair awkward, that.
Draken lifted his chin and fixed her and the hardened officers with a long stare. “When you’ve rousted and killed the last of these Ashen, come find me at the Bastion.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The moons had fled into the horizon and Auwaer huddled under shadows. Running figures appeared bent, as if to make smaller targets. Only fires interrupted them; torches wavering as they were carried, some few wooden structures alight by arson, smithy fires burning untended. More than a few stone structures had flames sprouting from the windows. As well, fires burned in Draken’s injured knee, his heaving chest, and his bad shoulder. War cries echoed from far and near, swelling and rippling down alleyways and bounding against the stone. The air trembled with them.
Few people threatened Draken as he jogged lopsidedly through the streets with his sword drawn, shirtless, armorless. Truth, he regretted his earlier trip to the temple ruins and his rest there. Even so, his steps were staggered.
‘You can rest when you’re dead,’ the old saying goes. I’m here to tell you not to believe all the adages you hear. Bruche sounded annoyed, and well he should. Draken was restraining him as best he could. The swordhand was nervous, wary of the battlegrounds splayed out between buildings. Draken had the feeling if he let Bruche go, he’d fight his way into battle rage.
Be easy, Draken retorted, equally annoyed. Every sound made Bruche startle or turn his head, which made him lose his balance.
On his first visit to the city, Draken had spent the better part of a sevennight traversing Auwaer street-by-street, alley-by-alley, questioning its cloistered inhabitants about an attempt on Queen Elena’s life. He’d judged them prejudiced, arrogant, and soft. Whatever collective faults marred them, this night they proved not to be the latter. It seemed the whole city had turned out to defend itself. The roads were slick with blood and gore. Bodies sprawled everywhere. The stink of death clung to his lungs, tainting each breath. Draken passed enough dead in the street to remind him of the massacre at Parne. By far most of them were Akrasian, lined eyes staring with horror into the face of Korde. The thought brought him up short. He ducked in an alleyway and pressed his back against a door inset into a thick stone wall. What if Moonlings were at work here? What if they could use the Abeyance to break the Bastion?
Then you had best bloody well go stop them.
He shook himself and started off again. Smoke and dust and the reek of blood made breathing difficult. He had to make his way around several clusters of fighting. He looked down one street and saw a large group of Ashen moving house to house, splitting off into doorways to search residences. A couple of them dragged a family out into the street, highlighted by torches. One of the Ashen shouted something. Draken wasn’t sure if they saw him, but he darted off, heart twisting at being unable to help. He had to trust that his servii were entering the city and following orders.
Greater good and all that, Bruche said.
Draken resisted saying something derogatory about the greater good. Bruche chuckled anyway.
As he neared the white road leading to the Bastion gates, he was forced to slow. Dead scattered the gravel, some of the bodies small. Bile burned in Draken’s throat and the last traces of Bruche’s good humor died. Moreover, a mass of terrified
Akrasians were trying to force their way into the palace. Escorts held them back from higher ground with a row of shields. Archers lined the battlements. So far bows were strung but no arrows were flying. Perhaps orders from Elena. But the crowd was in the way of Draken getting inside.
The Bastion was two squares centered on two courtyards, elegant in its simplicity. Seemingly impenetrable black walls loomed over the people gathered at its gates.
If he had a line and grappling hook, he’d trust the errings were dead as the Escort had claimed, swim the moat, and climb in a window, bad knee be damned. But a mean metal fence surrounded the moat and he had nothing but this blasted sword. He glared at it and lowered it to his side as he walked up to the crowd. Most of them were aged, or mothers and children.
He gently pushed along, using his height and breadth to move between them. He also smelled of battle: sweat, blood, metal. A little boy looked up at him. His eyes went round as Sohalia moons and he mouthed “Pirate” as he backed away toward the knees of an adult behind him, maybe a grandfather. The man turned with a scowl. “Fools all, watch where—” His gaze flicked over Draken and landed on the chain and pendant hanging around Draken’s neck. It was stuck in the blood coating his chest from the healed wound.
“My lord,” he said, eyes wide.
“I need to get to the Bastion. I’ve word for the Queen.” Close enough to the truth.
“Here now, who are you, Brînian?” said another man. “They aren’t letting any of us in. What makes you think they’ll let one of your lot in?”
Bruche breathed cold warning through Draken’s sword arm. Princes have enemies. Even in Brîn he had plenty who hated him, who would just as soon slip a blade between his ribs instead of pay him any honor and respect. Not that he couldn’t heal himself, but that would create a whole host of other problems.
He couldn’t say who he was. They might blame him for this attack; for not being here. They might blame Elena and take it out on him. He started to edge back.
Someone shouted down the darkened street, and then the warcries of the Ashen rose up. The crowd pressed up against him from behind and the low hum of voices sharpened. Draken twisted and maneuvered so he could look back over the heads of the people behind him. Torches glinted on the red crescent moons on their tabbards. Draken’s jaw tightened. A couple of well-placed arrows would smear the moons in to bloodstains. He tried harder to push back through, toward the enemy. There was no room, though. The people made a living, terrified wall. Between the enemy, the sheer walls of the Bastion, and the moat, they were trapped.
The unmistakeable swoosh of many arrows overhead cut through the mob’s voices and hammered down on the Ashen troops. War cries broke into screams as arrows hit. Akrasian heavy longbows, designed for a standing attack, shot thick shafts that could take on leather, chainmail, and fishscale.
But the Ashen were still coming, crowding the mob at the Bastion gate.
These Akrasians weren’t armed, weren’t fighters. The only one in this crowd with a sword was Draken.
“Make way,” he shouted, pushing more firmly. His heart tore at going the opposite direction from Elena, and he knew without discussing it with Bruche that he had little to no chance against the Ashen still standing. But a strange fierceness filled him.
He met the first Ashen and cut him down in two strikes. Seaborn slashed through the gap between the high-necked hauberk and helm. Blood gouted, obscuring the twined crescent design on the dead man’s tabard. Draken didn’t wait to watch him fall but took two strides toward the next. His sword clanged on the metal-strapped bracer, but the man’s seax was no match for Seaborn in pitched battle. Two more Ashen ran at him. An arrow took one, and then more arrows hailed down around them. He’d been protected from arrows on the Bane by Osias’s glamour. He had no idea if that was happening now. He didn’t have time to look for it. Three Ashen came at him. One occupied his sword arm while the other darted in to stab him. The seax stuck into his arm. Agony radiated through him, but Bruche rushed cold to the arm, numbing it while fighting off the other Ashen. The ground rumbled beneath his feet and Draken concentrated on staying upright as Bruche cut down the attacker and swung wide, catching the one who stabbed him against the helm. It wasn’t a kill shot but the man fell from the impact, probably unconscious.
Bruche switched Seaborn to the injured arm, ripped the seax from the wound, and rushed into the Ashen who still survived the arrows. There was no time to take a count, Draken was caught deep within battle fury, his awareness pushed aside as Bruche took total control and fought. He was vaguely aware of wounds, of lancing pain in several parts of his body, of his chest desperate for air. Ashen surrounded him. He heard snatches of war cries.
And then a roar, vicious and hard, surrounded them. The ground shook and gravel sprayed as warhorses circled them. Something flashed in the fallen torchlight and the man fighting Draken fell with a spray of blood. Then they all were falling. Draken could taste blood in every breath. Bruche pulled back a little. Draken swayed as his balance altered and he gaped up at the horse. The rider dipped his chin. The armor looked oddly loose over what Draken realized was a slighter form than most and pulled off his helm.
Braids tumbled out. “It seems I’m constantly saving your arse, brothermine.” Aarinnaie had a cut across one cheek that would probably scar. Her tone softened. “We’ve been looking everywhere. I could kill Geffen for letting you go off on your own. Truth, you’re a bloody fool.”
Bruche retreated more fully, leaving Draken’s head whirling. The ground trembled under Draken’s feet and his head swam toward making sense of it. At first he thought it was the horses moving but he realized several gashes and a couple of stab wounds were healing. He steadied himself against the horse, who tossed his mane and stomped at the rumbling vibrations from the ground. People shouted in fear and huddled low. Some spilled out from the Bastion bridge. Nothing life threatening though, because the ground didn’t crack open.
He should be asking questions and fought to think of one.
Where is Geffen? Where does the fighting stand?
He repeated Bruche’s suggestions out loud.
“I’m here, my lord.” Geffen pushed her horse forward, her voice muffled behind her helm. “I believe the term is ‘mopping up.’ The city seems to have fought off the Ashen. Most escaped, a few are captive, many are dead.”
“Elena,” he said hoarsely, turning back toward the Bastion.
The crowd of Akrasians were staring their way, caught within the shadow of the tall black wall. Above, archers still lined the battlements. The early sun lit on the vicious row of drawn arrows.
“I don’t know. They seem jumpy. Might want to get out of range,” Aarinnaie said.
Shouts and then the great gates nudged open. “Make way! Make way for Draken, Night Lord and Prince of Brîn.” Harsh voices, loud, and female. The Akrasians shuffled forward, spilling back out on to the road. Escorts swung the gates open and filed out in two quickly-assembled rows. They lined the bridge, putting themselves between the people and making an aisle for Draken to walk through. Several of them were the company of Escorts he’d met at the edge of the city. They broke protocol and dipped their chins to him as he walked between them, his gory sword still dangling from his hand, stinking of sweat, sticky all over with blood. He needed a piss and a hot bath. It took him some time to hobble the distance. His knee was probably swollen again.
Inside the Bastion walls, the noise of the city fell away. His healing damage to the city and the Palisade hadn’t touched the magic here, then. It was quiet, though. Too quiet.
The fountain had ceased. From the water shortage, likely. He swung his head around drunkenly to stare at the black walls, the shadowed balconies and walkways, and stopped at a small contingent of Escorts and courtiers. He blinked as he limped their way. “Tyrolean.”
A ghost of a smile. His friend walked forward, hand outstretched. They exchanged grips; then Tyrolean slung an arm around his neck and pulled him forwa
rd into an embrace. “Your Highness. It is good to see you alive.”
The motion made Draken stumble on his bad knee. Tyrolean held him around the shoulders to steady him.
“I thought Galbrait had you. How did you get into the Bastion?”
“I stole a grappling hook and rope and climbed the wall.”
“You learned from Aarinnaie then.”
“Aye.” He set Draken back but kept hold of his shoulder. The lined eyes lifted to meet his, lips set in a firm line. Bruche tightened within him. “Galbrait released me in order to give you a message.”
“Which is?”
“He will return to Monoea but not take the throne. He said to tell you, ‘There are no more kings and the gods will make us pay.’ He said that would be of some significance to you.”
Draken hissed a breath.
“Are you all right, Your Highness?”
“It’s just something from Monoean legend. Tough to shake off the old stories. Where is Elena?”
Silence.
“Well?”
“She and your daughter—” Tyrolean’s hand tightened on Draken’s shoulder.”—went to hide in the mountains with the Moonlings. Ilumat took her.”
#
His other hand pressed a small scroll into Draken’s. The seal was broken.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The healers fussed over Draken for two days. The third morning saw him ensconsed on a comfortable couch in Elena’s quarters, the offending leg up on a cushion. They’d taken the wrap off and the swelling had gone down, but the healers insisted it yet be propped, especially since he intended on riding for the mountains tomorrow. Bossy sorts, Elena’s healers. He itched to move but there was business yet in the city and no one to tend it but Draken. He tapped Elena’s scroll, which sketched her plans to her top officers, against his knee.
The room was warm, comfortable. Strings of colorful beads cast stippled shadows across Aarinnaie’s and Tyrolean’s faces. Osias, though, looked as if the shine had come off him in the previous days. Setia kept close to him, watching the others restlessly. Draken thought he knew a little how she felt. He had a distracting hollow place in his chest, nerves buzzing from inactivity. He wondered how Elena fared. If she realized now the mistake she’d made or if the Moonlings held her under the subterfuge of protection.
Emissary Page 42