Golden Tide (Song of the Aura, Book Four)

by Gregory J. Downs

  Unbidden hope rose in Lauro’s heart. “You will spare me?”

  “No.”

  “What in the Blazes will you do with me, then?” Lauro resisted the urge to try and rip himself free of the stone. He knew it would do no good.

  “I will…” the Tannarch paused, then grinned devilishly. The expression froze the prince’s gut. It was like statue smiling, totally devoid of emotion. “I will kill you, in front of all my people. They will know that I am King of the Wood, and you are a fool who has died for his mistakes. M’tant serve no one! Not the Darkness, and not the Light! We are greater than both! Fool!”

  He’s crazy… blasted mad… Lauro thought. Still rambling, the Tannarch swung his sword about in great swooping circles, talking of bloody deeds done at midnight, of oaths to the Creator, broken, and oaths to demons, abandoned and shirked. Lauro cringed but said nothing as the black blade swept ever closer, kept from slicing his flesh open by mere chance. Finally the Tannarch seemed burnt out, and panting from his speech, shoved his blade back into its sheath with a flourish.

  “Farewell, Fool,” the nymph smirked, then turned and walked away, straight at the wall in front of Lauro, opposite the place where he had entered before. His hand waved dismissively, and with a shuddering shriek, the wall cracked open, spilling green light into the prison as the Tannarch paused in the gap. “You will have enough air to live on until my Segrethe come for you, Openlander. Then we will see each other one last time… and you will die.”

  As the crack closed behind the Tannarch, Lauro glared at the flickering torches. That air would barely last him. Traveller… All Aura… Creator… is this how it all ends?

  With a resigned sigh, the prince let his eyes slip closed. He had failed. All his plotting to escape fate… it had done him no good except to make him fail quicker.

  No.

  Lauro did not open his eyes, but he stiffened and perked up his ears. He could have sworn someone had whispered to him… spoken into his head.

  No? That was what it had said. Was he wrong, then?

  He had read Wanderwillow’s book, and he had seen his own fate on the pages. Letting Gribly run off to save Elia, and taking on the quest to find the Red Aura himself should have broken that fate. He had no assurance of success, of course, as he would have had if he had followed the book’s path for him… but he had broken free, at long last, of others’ plans for him.

  Or had he? Perhaps he had not changed fate at all…

  But if that were so, he would not die here. If that were so…

  Something whisked in front of him in the darkness. He heard a series of small sizzles as every torch in the cell was put out, one by one. Impossible. He had not regained his Sky Striding, not yet, and that left only one other alternative.

  I will not die today. Lauro’s head jerked up again, and his eyes shot open. The chamber was pitch-black; not a single light shone. Fate was playing tricks on him again.

  “Are you here to save me, or end me?” he shouted into the darkness. His voice bounced off the walls, echoing around him again and again, until it died away completely. For a minute or more, no one answered.

  “That depends,” said a voice, somewhere in front of him. “My father will kill you, if he gets the chance. But I am not so sure.” Lauro did not know whether to cringe or laugh. It was the Tannarch’s daughter… the red-haired nymph girl who had captured him twice.

  “Who are you?” he forced out the question. No one had ever beaten him so easily as she.

  “My name is Avarine.” Avarine. It fit the image he had of her. Despite himself, Lauro smiled. “Tell me your name, Openlander. Tell my your story, and I may let you live. If it pleases me, I will help you escape.” Something cold and sharp pressed against Lauro’s heart, near where the wooden hawk hung around his neck. “Displease me, and I will disappear again, and the fool who calls himself Tannarch will cut your throat, spilling your blood on the stones of Mortenhine.”

  Lauro knew he should have been afraid. But here was his chance! Fate had played him false, but he was unbeatable now. His face burned with excitement. Whenever he needed it most, the Aura always sent help: first Gribly, then Elia, now this Avarine. Despite the jeopardy he was in, the prince let out a slow, confident smile in the dark.

  “I am Lauro Vale,” he told his unseen captor, “Prince of Vastion, Sky Strider of the Southern Kingdom and Heir to the Wind Throne. This is my tale, and if you do not believe it, then Sheolus take you…”

  Chapter Seven: Windmaster

  Karanel Winter paced back and forth across the stone floor of the dalheim’s highest chamber. Sweat beaded on her face, and occasionally dripped down her neck to wet the top of her mail shirt. Women only fought in Vastion’s army if they could Stride, and luckily the captain of the dalheim’s garrison had kept a few sets of gear for a Windmaster such as herself.

  The captain. Karanel walked to the window and looked out silently. It was too quiet. The grass was burnt and muddied for a good space around the back of the dalheim’s keep, but there were no enemies she could see. She slapped her gauntleted palm down on the stone, so hard it hurt through the glove. Damnable golems.

  A loud knock on her door made Karanel jump. She kept looking out the window, and called, “Come in, Captain. It’s your keep, after all.”

  “W… Windmaster.” Karanel spun to face the intruder- this was not the captain. This was a red-faced, weepy boy with a once-shiny silver cap, now dulled, with two long wings on the sides. A messenger. A Wind Strider of only minimum ability, used for running great distances faster than a horse could.

  “Have the warnings been delivered? Will the King know of our plight? Where is Captain Yotun?” The questions poured out too fast for her to stop. Suddenly she felt more afraid than she had since Vail died.

  “He…” the messenger shifted his feet, blinking through what might have been tears… or sweat. “He gave himself to the Aura. To protect us. Me an’ Ran. We only got through because of him.”

  “FOOL!” Karanel could keep it in no longer. The poor lad almost jumped out of his skin at her shout, trying to cower and salute and stand straight all at the same time.

  “I… I… I’m sorry…”

  “No!” the Windmaster spat, “Not you.” She turned away as the lad led out an audible sigh of relief. “Yotun. Why did he go with you? Fool… He should have stayed… He should have known…” suddenly she was on the point of tears herself, pacing and pounding her fist into her hand again and again. War is no place for a woman, her mother had said. Karanel knew she’d been right, now… but not for the reason she’d thought as a girl.

  “I…” the messenger gulped behind her, and she spun to look at him.

  “What more?”

  “He… he gave me this,” the messenger managed, steeping hesitantly forward and handing her a wrinkled piece of yellowed parchment with blood in the corner. When she took it from him, he cringed. Karanel didn’t blame him. She had not done much to earn an easygoing reputation with the dalheim garrison these past weeks.

  Nodding her thanks, she quickly perused the paper. A smile broke her face, once, but she quickly hid it behind a mask of controlled anger. Yotun. He’d known her only a matter of days, and yet… Blast it. Why must he have been the one to die first? Idiot men. All the same, no matter their age.

  The letter was short and to-the-point… mostly. She was to take command of the dalheim in the event of Yotun’s death. Normally his Second, Winden, would have… but Winden was dead, too.

  “So,” she said finally, “it seems I rule the dalheim now… or what is left of it.”

  The messenger-boy nodded as if he had thought it would be so. She glanced at him, and felt a stab of pity. He was just about Vail’s age. She sighed. War. Vastion had thought itself ready… but it had not been. The army that had come had laid siege to the small fortress since the beginning, but more than one army had marched past them, deeper into Vastion. She knew there were other dalheimi, other lords and garrisons mea
nt to protect the kingdom… but were they enough?

  It was not her fight, not now. Her fight was to survive, and to pull the garrison through with her. “So be it,” she whispered.

  “Ah… Captain Karanel?” It was the messenger again. “What are your orders sir… er, my lady?”

  “The golems have disappeared for too long,” she told him. “They may be burrowing beneath us. If they are, we can’t help it. But if they are, we have only hours at most to deal their encamped forces a blow so hard it could break the entire siege. Risky, but possible. Run to the stables for me, and…”

  A deep rumble shook the dalheim’s keep. Karanel stumbled but kept her balance; the messenger hopped from foot to foot as if he was standing on hot coals, but he was less affected. So soon? She thought. But she could not lose hope. If only-

  The hallway outside her chamber grew dark as night. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as she shouted.

  “Get out of the way, boy! Move!” In an instant she was leaping to knock the lad out of the way… but she was too late. A white blade burst through the messenger’s chest, and he stared down at it in shock.

  “Help…” he whispered, and toppled to the floor. In the swirl of shadow and smoke that had appeared behind him stood a thing with red eyes and skin as smooth and black as its hooded cloak. It stepped over the messenger’s body, leering. Walls and locked doors didn’t seem to faze the blasted things!

  “Whindmissstress!” The creature hissed, raising the sword. Flames ran along the edge. A Pit Strider. One of the golem’s masters.

  “Windmaster!” Karanel spat, mid-leap. She struck out with both hands, and lightning flashed from her to her foe; a thunderous sound and light that blinded her momentarily. Wetness splattered her body and face, burning like acid. She tripped over what was left of the Pit Strider, slipping in his blood and falling over the messenger’s corpse. With a cry of rage Karanel sprang up, forcing herself to push the memory of his chocked face away as she clattered down the smoky hallways in her armor, cursing and calling out for Yotun’s men. No. Her men. “We’re under attack! Cough… An attack, you fools! Rally to me!”

  Somewhere along the frantic run through the keep, she realized that soldiers were actually running behind her, answering her call as they poured out of barracks and mess halls, already ready for combat. Some were bloodied and others barely able to stand: the Pit Striders had come for more than just her.

  Early on someone pushed a spear into her hands. She hadn’t even thought of it, and her knives were back in the command chamber. Very well. She didn’t need weapons to fight, but she kept the spear, just in case.

  As it turned out, she was lucky she had. Two more Pit Striders were still living, killing Vastic soldiers indiscriminately with fire and sword- until she shoved the spear down their throats, crackling with lightning from her Sky Striding.

  All her life, Karanel had known there were limits to what she could do. But ever since the Wisp Demon, and Vail’s sacrifice… Those limits seemed to have disappeared. She was unbeatable… but she was only one.

  “Windmaster! Windmaster!” A young boy with a winged helmet far too large for him stumbled through a door to the side and fell at her feet, blood streaming down his face. She stopped and dropped low beside him, knowing with sickness in her heart that it was already too late. She lifted the lad’s chin: it was Ran, the second messenger. “Wi… they… courtyard… a golem… inside the dalheim…”

  Ran’s head fell to the side and he collapsed. Karanel did cry this time, and she let the men see it, too; but she kept on moving, no matter what. “Mancaptains Yorun and Ragan! Rally men to you and clear this keep of any of the invaders! All else to me! We’ll drive these fiends from the dalheim once and for all!”

  The men believed she could work miracles. They cheered her on, barely aware of the dead boy on the ground. Biting back her horror and fear, Karanel calmly ordered the body moved to a place where it would rest out-of-the-way until the battle had been won… or lost.

  Life was a mass of sensations: burning lungs, ragged breath. Wet eyes and dry mouth. The taste of salt and bronze and blood. Determination. Fear. Rage. Courage. At last Karanel and her ragtag horde reached the keep’s main gate.

  “Open!”

  She called, and it was done. The bolt was thrown and the great double-doors swung outwards, angry sunlight revealing the blood-soaked courtyard beyond. The lone golem was out there, a great golden beast of metal plates and spikes and gears, vaguely shaped like the giant apes of the Far West, flames spurting from its mouth, its eyeless mask of a face covering the Pit Strider who lay inside, controlling the demonic machine with his powers. Another Coalskin, probably, like the one that had attacked her.

  The golem was ravaging the courtyard, massacring horses and men alike, slaying those who fled and those who fought. Its flaming breath and slashing claws could tear through any armor, and crush any flesh. Only stone seemed to hinder them, for no reason Karanel could tell.

  Stone… and Lightning.

  “For the Sky King!” Karanel shouted, raising her spear. “For Vastion and Larion!”

  “For the Aura!” someone behind her screamed.

  Then she charged. The burnt grass in front of the keep crunched under her feet. The wind blew all around her, speaking in a voice only she could hear. The golem turned and saw her, its metallic screech drowning out the wind-voice. Karanel grimaced as it swung towards her. Her spear lifted, her legs blurred as she ran up through the air, dodging the golem’s clumsy swipe. Tiredness and exhaustion meant nothing to the euphoria of battle. She landed atop the golden monster, stabbing it with her spear again and again. Lightning crackled and flashed along her blade, and flickered in her eyes.

  “Die, unholy thing!” she spat. The golem rocked to one side, trying to throw her off, but she stabbed the spear into it and pierced the Coalskin inside. It died without a sound. Fire licked up from the iron belly of the beast, curling around the sides and scorching her. Letting go of the spear where it stuck in the shining hull, Karanel leaped skyward, propelling herself with Wind Striding as she watched the flaming hulk of the golem crash to pieces beneath her.

  That was their secret. Kill the Coalskin, hit the heart of the golem, and it would die.

  She landed in front of her men, trying to scream with excitement… and fear. She had not meant to do that… not so quickly. It had just come. Things were changing, too fast. She wasn’t strong enough. Not strong enough…

  “By the Aura,” gasped one soldier. He was in awe of her, she saw, as were the others. They kept in a huddle, looking as if they were deciding between trying to kiss her and trying to run away.

  “Give me a bloody weapon,” she growled. One of the soldiers threw her a sheathed sword. She tried to catch it, but her hand would not work, and it crashed down beside her. Cursing, she fumbled for it, finally clasping it between her hands and managing to make it hang on her belt. The men seemed not to see. Fine with her. She looked at her hands.

  Blood and Wind, she thought. Just like Vail. She had tried to heal him, in that time that seemed so very long ago… but it had hurt him more. Now she had done the same to herself. So much power, so much lightning… her hands were beginning to turn black, and flaky. She could barely bend her fingers, except around the hilt of weapons she knew so well.

  The price of victory.

  “Windmaster…” one of the men said in a hushed voice. Somehow she had not realized the quiet that had fallen. That couldn’t be good. She turned, slowly, hand on the sword-handle, ready to draw.

  Five golems, waiting outside the smoking ruins of the gate.

  “So this is how it ends…” Karanel whispered. It would not be a bad way to go. She could feel the power within her, the Power of Sky filling her and craving to be used, let loose, burning out of her in sparks of lightning and gales of wind…

  So many things were different, now that Vail had died. She had held him, and he… he…

  He had given himself to save her.r />
  Turning abruptly, she faced the soldiers. Behind her now, one of the golems outside screeched, and charged through the gate.

  “All of you, flee!” she said. “Flee the dalheim! Find your fellows! Get everyone out, and flee to the North! Meet the King’s army, and turn back this tide another day!” The men fled… all but one.

  “What in Vast are you going to do?” shouted the lone soldier.

  “Die,” Karanel said simply, “And kill the golems first. Now go!” The man ran.

  Karanel turned, letting the Power of Sky surge through her. The five golems had broken through, and the first was mere yards away.

  “FOR VAIL!” Karanel shouted, spinning and drawing her blade. Above her, where no clouds had been before, a storm swirled down from the heavens, light flickering along its rim.

  The golem leaped. Karanel swung her sword into the grassy earth, plunging the blade in deep.