Golden Tide (Song of the Aura, Book Four)

by Gregory J. Downs

  “It shall be done, my King,” Marvol assented, bowing low. He hesitated.

  “Speak your mind, Lord Winter.”

  “I… I would like to know why, my King. If only to correctly prepare.”

  King Larion smiled. His face was like ice. “There is no time to prepare, Marvol Winter. Your sister has returned.”

  “Karanel?” He could not help it. How did the king even know of her?

  “Yes.”

  “What could…?”

  “We’re going to war, Lord Winter. War with the Golden Nation.”

  War. The Golden Nation. Only three men knew the name. The King. The Lord of the White Wind. The Cleric of the Wind Throne.

  So this is how it ends, Marvol thought. Just as it began. With war.

  Chapter Twelve: Hallifar

  Gritting his teeth, Lauro tightened his hold on Avarine and kept running. He had an arm around her, and her arm was over his shoulder to help with the limp. An arrow had taken her in the leg, three days before, and he had not had the strength to heal it. Again and again the M’tant had nearly run them into the ground, and every time they had slipped away with nothing to spare.

  Sky Striding and Spirit Striding had helped, but when that strength had run dry, there had been the snapping teeth and red eyes of the draik that haunted the Tannarch’s forces. Lauro had not an inkling of why Steamclaw was here, or why he was helping them, but he didn’t complain. Of course, he made no effort to find the draik and thank it, either. Some feelings died too hard.

  At his side, Avarine stumbled, nearly taking him with her, but a Fist of Wind kept them both up. “Thank you,” she mumbled, nearly unconscious, but he didn’t answer. There was no time, no energy. Just the chase.

  Her red hair was rusty, her brown eyes dulled, and from time to time a light flickered across her forehead. She was losing control of herself, and her powers. Lauro felt like screaming, but he kept running. Running. That was all there was to it. Run until he was free, or could run no more, and then turn and make a last bloody stand.

  He didn’t even have a weapon.

  “It’s over…” Avarine was whispering. “I shouldn’t have done this…”

  “No, no!” Lauro snapped, trying to support more of her weight. “It’s almost over, but not yet. Look, there’s a copse at the top of that hill. We’ll stop there, and rest.”

  She looked up for a moment, bleary-eyed, then dropped her gaze again. Lauro was almost carrying her now. So close… those trees, some of the few they’d seen since leaving the Blackwood, looked tall and shady and inviting. He would have loved to rest there, in the heat of the day… if it had been some other time, when there was no chase of life-and-death, and when the sun actually shone through the clouds that now hung over Vast day and night.

  They were almost there. If he could just reach that copse, the trees would hide them for a moment. They could rest, and go on, and if they could not go on they would fight. And die. Perhaps. Probably. But maybe Steamclaw would save them again. Maybe that was the way. Maybe.

  Since when did you become so hopeful, fool boy? His father’s voice spoke his own doubts to him.

  Since I decided that I would not fail. Since I decided never to despair again. But could he? The fatigue was ripping his lungs apart inside, clogging his throat and burning his muscles with undying fire. He could flee, and make it, he knew, if only Avarine were not with him. He could Stride the Wind, and be gone in moments.

  But he could not leave her. For more than just the debt he owed her… he needed her now.

  Behind him, an ululating shriek rose up from the tall grass of the foothills that ringed the mountainous Blackwood. It was pointless to look back; he knew what it meant, and what he would see. Instead, he looked ahead again, to the ever-closer cluster of trees, and the towering ruins of the Lost Walls, miles beyond them… and the ever-gray, ever-clouded skies beyond that. A whole wide world that he would never reach.

  Time was nothing: the chase was everything. An infinite number of footfalls, stumbles, curses, and prayers entered his awareness, and all at once he found himself climbing that oddly-placed hill, lungs burning; shadows fell as he finally pulled Avarine into the copse and the shade of its branches.

  It was too much. Lauro felt himself falling, and he had no Wind to stop it. In a sort of shambling, stumbling lurch, he found himself sprawled on a bed of grass, under the cold shade of the pines. His head hurt, his chest burned, and his body felt as if it was dying… but somehow he had kept himself between Avarine and the fall, so he did not care.

  She lay across him limply, and he could not tell if she was awake or not. It felt good to lie there, knowing that doom came but not caring, because she was with him. I could die happy, like this, he thought, though in his heart he knew it wasn’t true. He could never let go of life, knowing Avarine was in danger. Not now. He forced his eyes open, fighting with every ounce of will the deadly drowsiness of exhaustion.

  Her eyes were open, and there was life in her gaze he had not seen before. “It’s almost time, isn’t it?” she asked quietly. He didn’t know exactly what she meant… but he nodded. “Good. I can tell you, then, and feel no shame.”

  “What?” He wanted to lift his head, but couldn’t; she was too close.

  “There is more to the reason I am not accepted among my people, Lauro Vale.” She sounded breathless, and not just from the chase. “My mother… was a human. Like you.”

  “I see.” He could barely think, though he knew what she said was important, and somehow extremely hard for her to say.

  “Her name was Avarine, like mine. Avarine Hallifar.”

  His eyes widened at that. “I knew a ranger with that name. Byorne… Byornleo Hallifar.”

  She smiled. So sad… but complete, now. Somehow. “I know. You told me. You see… I was meant to do this. I am tied up with your world, and your people, Lauro Vale. I try to convince myself otherwise, and fail. And I am tied up with you, as well.”

  She moved to kiss him, softly. He closed his eyes, and-

  “Ah… pardon me, Friends. I was going to say you needed help, and even help you myself, possibly… but I see you’re not in trouble after all. Uh, quite the contrary. I guess I’ll just be, ah, going, then? Goodbye!”

  Avarine jerked her head up and rolled off Lauro with a thump. He twisted over and sprang up to confront whoever-it-was who had interrupted. A lanky man not far older than Lauro leaned casually against a tree, grinning, wrapped in a worn gray coat with sleeves and a faded navy hood that seemed to have been literally stitched onto the original garment. His short brown hair looked as if it had been cut with a blunt dagger, and though his face was amiable, it had a look of hardness in it that reminded Lauro strongly of Byorne. A longbow and quiver hung at his back, but he bore no other weapons that Lauro could see.

  “Oh?” the young man said, feigning surprise. “Would you be wanting help after all? I, ah, might be able to give it, I think. Funny, as I happen to be distantly related to, ah, the Longstrider himself… I think. We’re a mixed brood, to say the least.” His rapid speech and flippant manner were at total odds with his appearance, and Lauro felt perfectly balanced between rage, hope, and amusement. The wind should have brought him a hint of this man, but then again he was tired. Or had been. He was less so now. The air was somehow healthier inside this copse.

  “Who are you?” Avarine asked, sitting now. Lauro kicked himself mentally- he had forgotten for a moment how hurt she still was. As he moved to help her, the gray-coated man continued.

  “Medlore Hallifar Silverpaw, at your service, and, ah, your family’s. I am a ranger, which should explain much to you… I would think. In any case, this is my usual station, in the daytime, and I happened to be snoo- ah, watching for threats when you two arrived. And, er… well, anyway, I thought you might be wanting to live? A little longer? Perhaps?”

  Lauro was beginning to get dizzy, but something “Medlore” had said stuck with him. “Ranger Medlore,” he said, “You said �
��station,’ didn’t you? Can you take us to wherever your rangers make camp? We’re being chased by M’tant wood nymphs, and there’s likely to be a battle.”

  “Don’t call me that, if you please,” the ranger said, making a displeased sound. “Most call me ‘Mudlo,’ around the camp, if you can stomach the abbreviation… Anyway, I like it better than Medlore. Oh, ah, yes… Rangers. We hold out in the ruins between two of the Lost Walls; twelve or so of us, though some pop in and out on missions every day, for…” he paused, narrowing his eyes and considering the two refugees. He’s not so brainless as he appears, Lauro thought.

  “Wanderwillow. The Brown Aura. Yes, we know him.” Lauro kept Avarine upright with his left arm, using the other to pull the treetoken from his shirt.

  “Ah. I see. Well then… I suppose you’ll have to do some more running, if you wouldn’t mind. Not that you have a choice. I’ll help, of course. It wouldn’t do to let you die, after all.” His eyes twinkled, but there was ice behind them. This man would kill to see them safely to the camp… and he would be good at it. Byorne had had that same look, sometimes.

  Thank the Aura for you, Longstrider, Lauro prayed. Then he nodded. “We can do it, Mudlo. Take us to the rangers.”

  The chase had begun anew.

  Chapter Thirteen: Hawks and Ravens

  Mudlo squatted at the foot of the crumbling stone wall, poking at the embers of a fire with a thin stub of wood. The sun was directly overhead, as far as he could tell through the clouds. There was just enough shadow to make him hard to see against the gray wall of stone. Chunks of rock and mortar lay around in odd places, mixed with sparse foliage and a few standing trees.

  The young ranger’s blood felt like ice. The enemy was near. It was only a matter of time. He was not in the best vantage point, with the rolling folds of ground and haphazard trees blocking his view of the curve that ended the East-most of the Lost Walls. The M’tant would come that way, assuredly… but they should have been there by-

  -Mudlo had to stop his head from jerking violently around, as he caught a shadowy movement beyond some trees to the left. Slowness, calm… these would be essential for him. For the trick.

  All at once, he was surrounded. The tall grass, where there was some, and every tree, seemed to suddenly give birth to a black-robed or black-armored M’tant. The fell nymphs wore their garb in folds and patches, even leather armor, giving them as a whole the appearance of a deadly flock of giant ravens. Their leader, as Mudlo assumed from the purple lining and the glimmering of his “plumage,” stepped forward confidently to challenge him.

  “Openlander. I know you have my prisoners. I know they are near. Tell me where they are, and I will ease your passing into Kerberus!” The snarling nymph seemed sure Mudlo would cower at his tone. The girl Avarine had called him the Tannarch. Is that how you treat your daughter, ah… Tannarch? You’ll have the Blaze to pay for that. Mudlo felt the rage building inside of him, and calmed it as he always had. With the ice in his veins.

  “O Raven King,” the ranger answered, forcing himself to look the Tannarch in the eye with a grin, “I would assuredly do so, now that you’ve caught me… but, ah, it would not please the hawks. Not at all. I’m sure you, ah, understand?”

  The Tannarch was wearing a grotesque black mask that obscured his face, but Mudlo could have sworn the nymph was sneering. Suddenly he felt himself hoisted up in the air, feet dangling inches above the ground as the M’tant leader pinned him to the stone wall by the throat. “Well, Ranger,” snarled the Tannarch, “your Aura will not save you if we skin you alive to make you talk, will they? I thought NOT. Tell your god-forsaken hawks they can fly to Kerberus for all the good it will do.”

  “All… right…” Mudlo gasped past the nymph’s stranglehold.

  With that, he pressed his back against the wall and kicked the Tannarch in the stomach with both feet. The pressure released as the nymph stumbled back with a curse, dropping Mudlo. The ranger dropped low, reaching for the weapons beneath his coat with one hand and sticking two fingers of the other in his mouth, emitting a loud, shrill whistle.

  The call of a hawk.

  Silent forms crested the top of the wall behind him, loosing a volley of arrows before leaping down into the mayhem below. Six rangers, the bulk of their force. They landed nimbly and charged forward, quiet as death; Mudlo joined them with a silent laugh on his lips. The shock of seeing their comrades riddled with feathered shafts broke the M’tant line almost as much as the charge. The nymphs broke and fled, ignoring the Tannarch’s guttural roars as he tried to rally them.

  “Oops,” Mudlo chuckled as the nymphs retreated into the grass and trees, “Ah, wrong way.”

  Deep metallic pings sounded, and several more of the fleeing nymphs fell in spurts of blood. Crossbows. Mudlo didn’t consider that sporting… but there wasn’t much of a choice, was there? Laughing aloud now, the grim joy of battle fueling his charge, the ranger hurdled the broken stump of a pillar, a long sturdy dirk in each hand. The battlefield was a boiling mess of fleeing ravens and ravaging hawks. The five crossbow-bearing rangers rose out of the grass where they lay hidden, drawing swords and axes and maces to cut down the nymphs that fled in their direction.

  One of the nymphs Mudlo chased went down with a slash across his spine. Another turned and fought, and got his neck pinned to a tree for his trouble. That lost Mudlo one of his dirks- blast it!- and there was no time to get it back, for suddenly the Tannarch was there, bulling into him with all the strength of a Westren Elephant. Mudlo was slight for a ranger, but far from defenseless. The Tannarch was weaponless, but his hand gripped Mudlo’s wrist too hard for him to stab with. Grunting, the ranger twisted ‘round, ducking and pulling the nymph king forward with all his strength.

  The Tannarch stumbled, off balance, and was flipped clean over Mudlo’s head. He landed on his back with a whump, and Mudlo leaped to straddle him, dirk pressed hard to the nymph’s throat.

  “Don’t move,” he snarled. The Tannarch just smiled. Mudlo winced; the nymph’s teeth were sharpened to points.

  Then everything began to go wrong.

  Something hard and thick coiled around Mudlo’s neck, yanking him off the Tannarch and slamming him ten feet backwards into the trunk of a tree. No- the tree had grabbed him… the very tree where he’d stuck the M’tant mere seconds before! Everywhere trees and grass were attacking the rangers and leaving the nymphs untouched. Branches reached out, stabbing at Mudlo’s green-cloaked fellows, and the ground sucked in one of them waist-deep.

  “Eave Striders!” Mudlo cursed, struggling, but it was too late. More and more vines wrapped around him. Branches curled unnaturally across his body and limbs and neck, holding him to the tree, trussing him up better than a rabbit in a trap. All at once he realized how faint the rangers’ hope was. There were twelve of them, and at least forty nymphs still living, some of them Striders.

  He could barely move now, struggle as he might. The flock of ravens had become a murder of crows, mobbing each of the rangers one by one, battling them with spears and curved swords and scythes, until one by one they fell and were killed or captured. A stone exploded when one of the rangers leaped atop it to make his stand; the man’s legs were torn to shards and he fell screaming.

  “No! Bloody Blaze, Arlin!” Mudlo writhed, and felt some of his bonds begin to slip. Perhaps…

  One of the black-robed nymphs with a scythe suddenly appeared in front of him in a shower of earth and rock. Had the blasted things been underground? Mudlo cursed again and again, realizing how stupid it had been to think the M’tant would just walk into his trap.

  Arlin and more are dead for my mistake, blast it… what a ranger I am.

  The hideous nymph raised his scythe. Mudlo struggled, feeling some of the vines snap.

  Arlin was our leader. He listened to me!

  The scythe swung, and Mudlo ripped himself away from the tree enough to duck and fall out of the way. He felt the black metal brush his coat as he tumbled. In a fla
sh he was up again, but the clever nymph followed through, spinning his weapon and cracking Mudlo across the side of the head with it. Stars burst in front of his eyes, the colors looked all wrong, his head felt like it had split open, there was a storm lashing through the Lost Walls all around him…

  No. Wait. He was on the ground, gasping for air, but the nymph with the scythe was nowhere nearby. The stars and colors were fading a little… but that storm… that storm was real!

  Mudlo felt sick. Another blow to the head… wonderful. As if I needed MORE insanity. He tried to crawl away from the flashing lightning and thundering gale that was sweeping the grass and rocks and trees, but it was difficult to move. The wind pinned him down, kept him from… from what?