by V. Holmes
“That is our advantage. We have 300,000.”
Bren whistled. “If there is no naval movement you might have a chance.”
Eras pointed at the new marks on the map. “I need to copy that map, Commander, I would issue missives to your admirals. We leave tomorrow, early. Dismissed.” The officers left, followed shortly by the Bordermen. When they had gone, Eras turned back to Alea. “I think the way will be dangerous, more than before. The Bordermen know this land better than any, but many are not keen on allying with us. It will be a short ride—less than a week, but I want to be clear that should something happen you two will not look back. It was foolish to send Dhoah' Lyne'alea across the pass alone. Do not stop until you reach the Iron Sea. A ship is to meet us there, but they have orders to sail with just the Dhoah’ should it come to that.” She straightened. “Enjoy the night. I hear there will be drinking.”
Raven cracked a rare smile. “That’s every night. I’d best get a head start on the men, as is my duty.”
Φ
“Then, An’thoriend slew the last assassin, blades flashing like the sun, his ice-tipped horns stained with blood!” One of Eras’ men recounted loudly. The soldiers were ranged around the fire in the dining hall’s central hearth telling tales and tossing dice. The group of tanned Bordermen watched with expressionless faces.
“With the last intruder dead,” the soldier continued, “An’thoriend turned to his love, Jessamine, Princess of Clamiirn. He saw, then, that in the battle the princess had been struck down by an arrow meant for him. On that day, An’thoriend, the mighty hero, swore that he would never love any woman but her equal, knowing that such a woman did not exist.” The man finished by clutching his heart dramatically. The crowd cheered as he bowed.
“An’thoriend?” Alea turned to Arman, “Is that our An’thoriend?”
Arman scoffed. “I doubt he would consider himself ‘ours,’ milady, but yes.”
“He’s a hero in tales? Are there many about him?”
“A few. They were very popular with my grandfather’s people, so I’ve heard. He’s mostly an old tale now.”
Bren glanced over. “He’s known Azirik for decades, apparently. He was friends with King Brenterik. I loved the stories, but it was hard to marry that man with the legends. I assumed we must have been in the right if a hero allied himself with us.”
“I doubt there is a king or queen An’thoriend hasn’t befriended.”
Someone found a wooden flute and began abusing it in the rhythm of a dance called “Sailor’s Hip.” Several soldiers jumped up and began to make wholehearted fools of their honor, kicking their heels back and lifting their knees high. After several moments the few maids joined in. Narier strolled over to the Dhoah’ Laen and offered his rough, square hand. “You look like you could use some fun, though I can’t promise much skill.”
She laughed shyly and allowed him to pull her into the dancing.
Φ
Bren inched closer to the fire pit. This was familiar—loud men and women, laughter that would fade quickly in the morning. He glanced over at Arman curiously. The younger man’s gaze was impassive as he watched Narier whirl the Dhoah’ Laen about.
“If you don’t want her to dance with him, best ask her yourself next time instead of glowering.”
Arman shot him a glare.
Bren chuckled. “You’ll never have a woman that way.”
Arman turned the full force of his gaze on Bren, “I’ve ‘had’ women, thank you. And I have one such woman back home who’ll have me when I return. Milady is different. I cannot expect a killer to understand such a thing.”
Bren heard the dismissal and ambled to one of the tables. He grabbed a chipped mug of foaming ale and took a deep gulp. He eyed the serving girl who ducked from the kitchen for a moment.
“Forget it, she’s smitten with Captain Fieren.” The female Borderman from the meeting held out a hand. “Reka.” She swung her leg over to sit backwards in the chair. Like her fellows her skin was a deep tan and her hair a warm black. “I congratulate you on your journey thus far—Toar knows it has been nothing but blood for the past weeks.”
“I’ve only been with them for a fraction of it—I cannot imagine how just the two of them made it. You left your people who allied with Azirik?”
“We have tribes, but our first allegiance is to ourselves and that alliance was destroying my people. I expect you know something of that.” She fingered the small tattoo on the bridge of her nose. It was a faded orange and black butterfly.
“What does that mean?” Bren asked, gesturing.
“We’re marked on the day we become a warrior. We choose something befitting our character.”
Bren smiled. “Our tradition was to become significantly tossed with ale. Yours is much more dignified.” He raised his mug, “Care to join me?”
Φ
Arman stumbled on the stairs. Alea retired long before and only Bren stayed up with the Bordermen and soldiers. The Rakos’ head already throbbed with the ale. He groaned. It would only get worse with morning. He thudded against the wall across from Alea’s door. and slid down it, landing crooked on the floor. “Ouch.” He stared at her door and the darkness under it. He was not sure what made him drink so much. It had been years since he had been properly drunk, and the road was no place to dull his senses. Barrackborn said I was unfaithful to Veredy. He squinted, bringing his thoughts into better focus. “Vielronan ale is sweeter.” The drink or the woman? “And we did not have this obsession with dancing!” He addressed the door, “Who even likes to dance? Milady. Of course she likes to dance. I don’t even know a step.” His griping distracted him from the fact that Alea had stepped into the hall and sat across from him. “Of course my damned pride will not let me sleep in a cursed bed, now would it? That would be easy. What is a little back cramp to Arman the Rakos, Great Guard of the Dhoah’ Laen?” His head banged against the floor as he turned to look at her. He did not notice the pain. “Hello, milady.” His voice was warm and more candid than usual.
“Hello.” She smiled. “I think you drank a lot of ale, Great Guard.”
He fluttered a hand at her dismissively and made a rude noise. “I used to drink Wes under the table.”
“Wes doesn’t drink much.”
“He stopped after one night up against me!” He paused his boast, realizing how it had sounded. “Not like that—he’s never tried a pass at me.”
She laughed. “I’m sure you were a fearsome sight.”
He nodded then winced at the spinning in his skull. He looked over again, suddenly serious. “I used to think I was. Wes and Kam and I, we were the trouble-tricks of the Lows. You know, when you are so young you feel immortal? I thought I would never feel more alive than I did then. Looking at you makes me feel more mortal than anything, and yet I feel invincible. More than when I first felt lust, more than my first brawl. I’m fire. I’m wild.” He trailed off and stared at her.
“You should have stayed.”
“You’re too interesting. I think that’s why Barrackborn’s words irked me. I feel guilty for not missing home more, missing her more.” He reached out and took her hand impulsively, the calluses scraping her palm. “You’re worth all the pain of the fire you start, Alea.”
Her face flushed and she drew back. "I think you need to sleep, Arman.”
He bid her good night and watched the door close. His body burned from her hand and everything he could see in her face. Don’t go down that road. He commanded himself. That is the last thing this journey needs.
Φ
Alea stared at her door. The heat in Arman’s eyes and the tone of his voice worried her. It was not the ferocity. She had seen that look before, on men’s faces when they had looked at her foster sister. The girl had been beautiful and curved. Seeing it directed at her was uncomfortable. Arman was handsome and the wear from the road did not hurt, but he was a friend first. I don’t mind the idea of taking a man, but Arman is too brooding, too dedicated and our
friendship is new.
She turned over to look out the tiny window etched in the wall. She needed to sleep. Her eyes closed and she imagined she was dancing again. There was no war, just music, and someone to dance with. Below the sounds of merriment continued and, for the moment, Fort Stone was the calm in the eye of a storm.
Φ
The 18th Day of Vurgmord, 1251
Condensation beaded on Arman’s skin. Clouds rolled like waves of a white sea and his heart thundered at the sight. The chill did not make his bones ache, though it surely should have. It was as if a fire was banked in his chest. A voice cut through the sky. “Brother?” Mountain peaks jutted into the clouds. Perched on the top was a familiar figure. “Arman!”
“Arman, wake up!” Hands ripped his blanket away.
He lunged up, scrambling to get his knife. He blinked and realized Alea crouched beside him. Her eyes were horrified and puzzled, “What?”
“I came out to wake you, but you were…burning.”
He pushed himself upright and winced as his head pounded. Then he saw his blanket. It was scorched and smoking. He dug hastily through the tangle of cloth, finally pulling out the heavy Crown. It looked unremarkable in the dim corridor, save for the faint smoke curling from the metal.
Alea shook her head and sat back. “You're not burnt?”
“All of me hurts, but I suspect that was the ale, not the fire.”
“How do you feel?”
“Like I deserve.” He hauled himself to his feet and gathered his things. “I’ve got to pack, I’ll meet you downstairs.”
When he emerged with his pack, the courtyard was a seething mass of men and horses. The Bordermen seemed indisposed to riding, but the officers we already in their saddles, as anxious as their mounts to be moving. Arman wound through the crowd to where his buckskin waited. He reached for the reins but the animal squealed and shied from his touch. He tried again and the horse whirled, teeth snapping closed where Arman’s forearm had just been. Arman grabbed the mount’s bridle and dragged its head towards his. He forced it to meet his eyes. “Fate’s, I’m not going to eat you.” After a moment it finally ceased its panic, though still pranced when Arman swung into the saddle.
He settled in the saddle and glanced up. Eras watched him, her unfathomable eyes narrowed.
Alea sidled up to him with a nervous smile. “I think my rear will grow its own saddle if we keep riding.” She glanced at the stormy dawn sky, “That won’t make this journey any easier.”
He snorted and nudged her with his knee. “Soon you’ll be in Athrolan and dressed in silk and pearls and not remember the road’s name.”
Eras raised a fist and whistled as the first stinging beads of hail began to fall. “Head out!” She urged her horse into a lope, the riders spilling from the gates behind her and into the storm.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The 19th Day of Vurgmord, 1251
The Ru’un Felds of Athrolan
REKA KEPT PACE WITH Bren’s horse. “Even I’m growing tired of these rocks, and I was raised here.” She pushed her myriad braids from her face with a sigh, “We rarely travel on one path, though.”
Bren smiled humorlessly. “It's funny how quickly the magic of home can fade.” In the two days since leaving Fort Stone, Bren had lost his patience with the uneven rocks.
“You were truly Azirik’s soldier?” When he admitted he had been, she raised her brows. It was as expressive as the Bordermen got. “You chose your sister over your father? I never had a sibling, so perhaps that’s why I don’t understand.”
“I didn’t know he was my father. He never told me—was ashamed of me—that changes things. Learning he was hunting his daughter, never mind that.” He shook his head.
“The truth makes monsters of our heroes.” She moved forward to take her turn as scout when they began to climb free of the rocky bowl of the Felds. Brown grass dotted the ground, waving half-heartedly. The edge of a forest rose to the north and Bren inhaled the familiar scent of pine and soil.
Φ
Alea shook herself awake. She had learned quickly how to doze while in the saddle. She glanced around at the trees, but could see no difference between them and those that surrounded them an hour before. “What time is it?”
Arman looked over, “Close to midnight. Do you need to rest?”
She shook her head mutely. Truthfully, her bones ached with the cold and her body shook. The longer they were in the saddle the closer they were to Athrolan.
He placed a hand on her frozen hands, wrapped in mane and reins. He swore softly. “You should have said you were ice.”
“This is war, Arman. We’re not meant to live in comfort. I’d rather make the best time.” His hand was warm, but the heat was eerie.
“I’m sorry for my words the other night. Drink has never made me bright.”
She looked down at his large hand resting on hers. “I understand.” She paused a moment. “Merahn and I listened to the servants who drank sometimes. They mostly boasted, but occasionally they spoke of women.”
“Those are the two things men seem often occupied by—their deeds and women.” He chuckled, “Even so, I’m sorry you saw that.”
“It makes you human, Arman. When you’re always so respectful, it’s almost as if you’re not real.” Her words must have stung, for he pulled away.
Φ
The 22nd Day of Vurgmord, 1251
The Village of Marl Mere
Bren was not prepared for the sight of the sea when they emerged from the forest. The gravel strand was broad and swept along the edge of the forest. The dark water stretched to the horizon. It was large enough to be an ocean. Down the beach Marl Mere’s few thatched cottages bustled with life. The Pier jutting from the shore was the only part of the town that had seen recent repair. Still, it swayed with the waves sweeping in from outside the harbor. Moored at the docks were three Athrolani naval vessels.
Bren glanced over as Eras drew abreast. “Those ours?”
“One is. The commander arranged for one of his mariners to meet us.” She glanced up at the sky. “It seems we’ll have clear sailing.” The horses skittered uneasily across the loose boards of the swaying pier as they approached the docks and dismounted. Alea’s face flushed in the sea air, her dark hair whipping about her face. She smiled broadly.
“M. Xavier is ours,” Raven gestured to the largest of the ships. She was long and narrow, made for slicing waves. Her double masts—the taller in the center, the shorter in the aft—were deep red wood, polished from wear, as was much of the dark deck. The thick rails were painted white and symbols for luck carved the figurehead’s belly. Each of the naval vessels bore the prefix “Magisterial” shortened to “M.” The two ships flanking her were of equal decoration and bore the names M. Vichore and M. Tursio.
It took many minutes for the horses to be led into the cargo hold below decks and tied into their small stalls. Alea paused at the bow, staring out to the mouth of the bay as the ships made ready for the voyage. Bren leaned on the rail beside her as Arman hauled himself into the rigging. “Let us hope our winds are fair.”
Φ
The 24th Day of Vurgmord, 1251
The Iron Sea
Arman’s legs tightened around the mast. The sailors mostly ignored him, and he was happier in the air. The close trees had made him anxious and he was grateful to have open air. His eyes were trained on the scuttling clouds. The thoughts of the Berrin soldier echoed in his mind, a nervous voice in the back of his skull. Thus far, the sky had been nothing more than overcast.
I’d best keep my eyes on those clouds. Gray thunderheads built near the shore. He closed his eyes and focused. His mind shot forward. He was buffeted by rising wind. The clouds were veined with copper and crimson and dread ran down his spine. The gods’ power. The sucking wind pulled his mind closer and he swore as blackness engulfed him. The stinging rain steamed on his skin. He pushed fistfuls of power into his hands. His palms sizzled as he shoved the power int
o his muscles. Heat engulfed him and he lurched free. His eyes flew open. He was perched on the mast still, but his clothes were soaked in sweat. His hands, gripping the rigging, were as transparent as white smoke. He shouted and lost his hold, spinning towards the deck.
Φ
Bren sat against the rail, fingers fidgeting with a frayed bit of rope. His eyes moved back and forth between the three women on deck. Alea stood at the bow, her face to the sun. Reka was curled against the rail beside her, eyes closed. Eras paced the length of the ship.
Bren sighed. Despite fighting alongside them, he felt misplaced. He stepped up beside Alea.
“What is it?”
He looked down at the water. “When does the confusion end? My world is replaced with something entirely different.”
Alea turned to him. "When my city was destroyed, my only thought was to survive. Then in Vielrona, all I wanted was to die. Eventually I learned new things. It was a violent transition, but came in stages. First I learned to help the inn. Then I learned to fight. Then I learned I was Dhoah’ Laen. Sometimes I wake thinking I’m still in Cehn. I long for the desert air and the smell of the bazaar drifting up to my window. The pain fades, but a piece will always remain.”
“I feel useless, Alea. Perhaps if I learned, like you, it would be different. I’m your brother, but I just met you. I wonder how I can love you, yet I think I might. And you are surrounded by these legends—Stonefaced generals, Rakos Guards. What use could I possibly be?”
Her hand closed over his on the rail. “You’re Azirik’s only son. You’re the heir to his throne. That makes you powerful.”
The prospect of leading a country terrified him.
“People fear us for our power, however hard we try to show them we protect them. We may wish to be like they are, but we’re not.”
He looked at her, surprised. She was idealistic, sometimes, but astute. “Thank you.”
She frowned suddenly, hands gripping the ropes running to the bowsprit. “Arman.” Atop the mast, Arman’s body shook.
Bren followed her gaze. The dark smudge on the horizon grew rapidly. “None of the ocean storms in Mirik looked like that.”