Shattered Shields - eARC
Page 19
“Your Excellency,” Jeffran said cautiously. “There is talk among the patrollers to the north. They say there is a madman chained beneath the Emperor’s palace. A man who froths and screams in the night, and claims the deadfall savages are filled with an unholy power.”
He hesitated, knowing he was overstepping his bounds, but also unwilling to relent. This was why he had come. Best get it over with. “Your Excellency, if there is such a man, and such a power, my patrollers deserve to know of it. We give our lives to protect the frontier. We have a right to understand what we fight against.”
Silence. Jeffran felt his heart hammering in his chest.
For a long time the Eye did not speak. Jeffran could not see, from the place where he knelt on the floor, what the old man saw beyond the window. Had the floating logjams finally reached the capital? They had trailed Jeffran on his three-week journey—dark shadows overhead, constantly distorting, like stains of blood upon a windowpane.
The Eye of the Emperor turned at last from the window. “You are a brave man, Jeffran of the Highlands. You left your troops and risked execution as a deserter in order to petition before a man who might have turned you away without a second thought. I almost did, except…” The Eye paused, tapping his fingers. “Perhaps it is fortuitous that you, of all patrol leaders, have chosen to ride to the capital with your concerns. I think…yes. You have made up my mind for me. Come.”
Jeffran followed the Eye toward the back of the chamber and down a winding staircase. A pair of guards at the bottom—not mere administrative lackeys, but elite fighters with exquisite armor—parted to let them pass. A servant hurried from an alcove ahead, summoning handfire to light the way. The Eye smiled indulgently at Jeffran’s startled expression.
“It is not a difficult skill to learn,” the Eye said, nodding toward the heatless swirls of light above the servant’s palm. “Alas, it would not be very useful to you on the frontier. Souldust falls infrequently there.”
“I’ve no desire for magic, Excellency,” Jeffran said, more gruffly than he intended. “The pretty tricks are not worth the cost.”
The servant glanced sharply over his shoulder. “Not tricks,” he said petulantly.
“Peace, Davothy,” the Eye said in a soothing tone. “The patroller meant no insult.” As they continued through underground tunnels, the Eye lowered his voice and leaned toward Jeffran. “Davothy was born as he is. His family placed him under my care, knowing that he would have a place of honor here in the capital.”
Jeffran grunted noncommittally.
Davothy, his ears having clearly detected this exchange, turned to glower. “Not tricks,” he said again. “Blessing. Where you live…” The servant paused, struggling to force out the slurred words. “I’m just stupid. Dim-witted boy, no good for nobody. Here”—he tapped his chest proudly—“I’m special. Do magic, earn wages.” He gave Jeffran another glare for good measure, then whirled and continued his slightly lurching tread through the passage.
Privately, Jeffran thought that even a natural dimwit must take damage from souldust. The addiction alone was harmful. But this was the capital, where illusionists and fire-singers performed on every street corner, and where even respected scholars practiced occasional soulcraft. Jeffran’s provincial attitudes were not welcome here, and so he kept his peace.
The tunnels grew darker, danker, with dripping patches of moisture on the walls. Shadowed sarcophagi revealed that they had entered the Emperor’s catacombs, a restrictive labyrinth of tunnels that housed past rulers of the kingdoms. They came at last to a more well-lit area, with regular torch sconces on the walls and crisp, newly cut masonry.
“We are beneath the Eternal Emperor’s palace,” the Eye said. “Men awaiting justice are often kept here.”
They passed another set of guards. Davothy extinguished his handfire and retreated to a wall alcove while the Eye spoke with a man at a broad, orderly desk. The man—who appeared to be some sort of warden—fetched a small set of keys and unlocked a narrow door of unspectacular construction.
Jeffran recoiled as the portal swung open. The tiny room stank of excrement. The sparse bedding had been shredded, the bed frame overturned, and jagged scratches marred the stuccoed walls. On a space of bare floor in the room’s center, chained to a metal bolt that was clearly a recent addition, lay an emaciated man who did not acknowledge their entry.
Jeffran knelt beside the chained man, horrified by the staring eyes, the gaunt lines of cheek and jawbone. The prisoner’s skin tones were those of the Holy Kingdoms, his tangled auburn hair a clear confirmation of ancestry. His clothing was in tatters, his hair snarled with fragments of broken bone. Faded remnants of war paint marked his cheeks and arms.
“Timoten?” Jeffran whispered. But the prisoner did not respond to the name.
“What is this?” Jeffran demanded, whirling to face the Eye of the Emperor. “This man is a citizen of the Holy Kingdoms. What has he done to deserve such treatment?”
“The chains are necessary,” said the Eye, who remained at the room’s entryway. “In his lucid moments, this man can be quite—”
A growl rose in the prisoner’s throat. With a sudden lurch, he snapped bleeding fingers around the collar of Jeffran’s shirt.
Jeffran yelped and jerked backward, but the prisoner forced him to the floor.
“Who are you?” the man demanded. “Why are you here? Don’t you know I have to kill you? Stupid, abhorrent ground dwellers!”
A fist struck Jeffran’s face. He floundered backward. The prisoner lunged, snarling, but snapped to a halt as the chains pulled taut. He raged, spine arching, and for a terrified instant Jeffran feared that his inhuman strength would rip the chains free of their mooring. Blood streamed down the prisoner’s wrists. Bones snapped audibly as he threw his body against the floor.
Finally the man collapsed, whimpering. “I shouldn’t have left,” he gasped, lungs heaving. “Too much dust, it’s all gone wrong. Jeffran! Help me, Jeffran!” He wept and clawed the ground.
The Eye of the Emperor said: “Jeffran. It is the only name he ever speaks. When you arrived to petition at my audience hall, your voice colored by the same highland dialect, I wondered at the coincidence.”
“How did he come here?” Jeffran asked, voice rasping.
“He was found by a patrol near the Shan-ti border. Rather, he accosted them, clinging to their legs and begging for asylum. It seems he realized that he was among countrymen, and found courage to flee from the other savages.” The Eye looked with pity on the trembling prisoner. “He claimed to have knowledge of critical importance to the Emperor, but when he was brought into the capital, he began raving. Our best physicians have been unable to ease his condition. He calls them ‘irreverent bloodsuckers’ and suggests a number of…intriguing alternate applications for their equipment.”
Despite himself, Jeffran gave a wan smile. “Timoten never did like doctors much.”
“You do know him, then?”
“Yes,” Jeffran said. He lowered himself, exhausted, to sit beyond reach of the prisoner’s chain. “He’s my brother.”
* * *
It took four men to hold Timoten down while the Emperor’s physicians tended his wounds. When Timoten had screamed himself hoarse and the last of the broken bones had been set, a hunched, bird-boned matriarch murmured an incantation and passed a glowing palm across his chest.
Jeffran watched with gut-wrenching anguish. He had not seen his brother in fourteen years, not since the disastrous childhood raid that had separated them. Their mother’s anguished cries had haunted Jeffran’s dreams that night, and every night thereafter.
The matriarch finished her work and sat back, crooning to herself. Bone-knitting was intense magic, heavy on souldust and intellectually disastrous for those who practiced it. Timoten would not ordinarily have qualified for such attention, but the savage refugee—like a prized warhorse—could not be relied on to leave the injury undisturbed.
“Thank you,�
�� Jeffran said as he helped the old woman to her feet. “Your sacrifice honors us.”
“That’s all right, lovey.” She patted his arm, eyes failing to focus on his face. “I’m bound for the grave. Didn’t the golden birds tell you? No need for wits on the other side.” She broke into an old sky shanty, rocking back and forth with the chorus.
Timoten, who had grown visibly more agitated at the old woman’s arrival, at last ceased his screaming. He sank to the flagstones, hair falling in matted hunks around his face. “Too much dust,” he mumbled. “Dust, dust, ashes and dust. He burns it like fire along my bones.”
Jeffran leaned forward. “Who, Timoten? Who burns the dust?”
“He’s always near. Behind the lines, whenever the rafts come down. Far enough to stay unbloodied. Near enough to dominate.”
Jeffran leaned forward, urgent. “When the Emperor’s soldiers found you, you said you knew something important. What was it, Timoten? What did you come here to tell us?”
Timoten wailed and yanked his hair. Eerie streaks of light pulsed along his skin. “It’s no use,” he cried. “There’s too much of it. I can’t break free. Jeffran! Where are you, Jeffran?”
“Timoten! It’s me. I’m Jeffran.”
“Dust, dust, ashes and dust…”
Jeffran paused. The Eye said Timoten had become incoherent when the Emperor’s soldiers brought him to the capital. And his agitation had increased visibly when the ancient matriarch used souldust to heal him.
“You!” Jeffran said, whirling to address the warden. “Take the old woman outside.”
The warden eyed Timoten uncertainly. “All right. I’ll send a pair of guards to—”
“Don’t send anyone. You city dwellers are all tainted with souldust.”
“Souldust,” the old woman said as the warden escorted her from the room. “Oh yes, the dust seeps into your soul. I had a patient once who…no. That was my husband. Is he dead? I think he died.” Her voice trailed away down the hallway.
The glowing lines on Timoten’s skin faded. The madness left his eyes. “Jeffran?” he asked, his gaze at last locking on his brother’s. “Jeffran. Praise the kingdoms I found you. They’re coming.”
“The savages?”
“They mean to attack the capital.”
“They’d be fools to try. They’re no match for the Emperor’s sorcerers.”
“No, you don’t see. You must see, Jeffran. The souldust. It strengthens his hold on us. You must warn the Emperor. If his soldiers loose magic against the savages—”
A signal horn blew, long and low, from the ramparts atop the Emperor’s palace. Timoten’s eyes rolled upward. He dropped in a trembling fit, spittle foaming from his mouth. Jeffran’s blood froze. There was only one reason the horns would be blowing that particular signal, with quite that sense of urgency.
The deadfall savages were attacking.
* * *
Jeffran reached the ramparts as the first rafts were dropping, his patroller’s insignia granting him access to the heights. A line of hard-eyed sorcerers stood ready to rebuff the attack. Their upraised fists glowed with souldust.
“Stop!” Jeffran shouted, but his words were lost in the throng of jostling soldiers. Brawny savages leapt from the descending rafts, dropping like scattered pebbles. Most were impaled on spears held by nervous soldiers. Others struck the ramparts and collapsed, bones snapping.
The sorcerers sent their first volley upward.
Flames erupted from outstretched fists, dazzling Jeffran’s eyes and licking along the undersides of rafts. Savages pulled back from the edges, skin flaming. But, a moment later, the savages were jumping again, and this time something was different. They…glowed. A flaring network of lines lit their skin, brightest along their skulls. Moments before, overeager savages had broken bones when they jumped from the rafts. Now they landed in feral crouches, unharmed. They lashed out with cudgels and battle-axes.
A woman dropped onto the shield of a nearby soldier. She lunged toward Jeffran, snarling. He caught her club with both hands, intending to toss her aside, but she was unnaturally strong. She braced her legs against his cuirass and leapt from his chest, twisting mid-air to strike at the Emperor’s sorcerers. Within seconds, she had razed the entire line, snapping bones and sending men tumbling to their deaths.
Jeffran whirled, intending to cut off the woman during her second pass, and found himself face to face with Timoten. His brother’s face was contorted, his eyes blazing with mindless fury. Broken chains trailed from his forearms.
Jeffran backed away, hoping to avoid a confrontation. Timoten advanced, swinging the chains in a broad arc. Jeffran ducked, rolled to one knee, and scanned desperately for some avenue of escape. His eye caught on something unusual: a raft.
It hovered near the edge of the ramparts, the only raft that had not joined the battle. A massive figure stood at the center, with light blazing along its cranium.
He’s always near. Timoten’s words rang in Jeffran’s memory. Behind the lines. Far enough to stay unbloodied. Near enough to dominate.
Jeffran didn’t stop to think. He pushed himself upright, lunged to avoid Timoten’s next attack, scooped up an abandoned shield, and charged toward the edge of the roof.
He honestly didn’t know if he’d make the jump. Air whizzed beneath his boots, and the shield preceding him caught the edge of several blades. Then his feet struck the roughly lashed logs of the raft. He stumbled forward. Savages swung at him. He snapped a cudgel from the nearest belt and swung, eyes focused on the glowing skull of the savages’ leader.
The cudgel whizzed through the air, snapping with crushing power. At the last moment, Jeffran’s target raised an arm in self-defense. The cudgel descended, not on the unprotected cranium, but on the metal bracer strapped to his opponent’s forearm. The bulky savage grunted, and the blinding patterns along his scalp dimmed slightly.
The other savages, who’d been moving to intercept Jeffran, halted mid-stride. They seemed disoriented. The glowing lines along their skin faded.
Looking more irritated than angry, the savage leader swatted Jeffran to the ground. Jeffran rolled, swinging at the savage’s leg. Bone crunched beneath his cudgel. The savage roared and reached down to lift Jeffran by the neck. Jeffran struggled, throat collapsing beneath crushing fingers. His lungs burned. He could not draw air. The world began to go black.
Then something heavy thudded into the savage from the side.
Jeffran dropped, gasping. He struggled to his feet and saw Timoten crouching atop the fallen savage, severed chains trailing from both wrists. Timoten snarled and drew back an arm to strike, but the savage heaved sideways, knocking him aside. Timoten spun in air, chains flaring. Metal struck unarmored flesh. The savage grunted. He raised his head and stared at Timoten, light flaring with renewed brilliance along his scalp. Timoten faltered, hands grasping the sides of his head. He crumpled.
The savage leader smiled.
Then his expression froze, rigid, as Jeffran’s cudgel shattered the bones of his skull.
Jeffran struck again, this time in the chest. He jumped away as his massive adversary toppled, but misjudged his direction. The savage’s weight, now displaced from the center of the raft, set the entire surface rocking precariously. Jeffran’s foot slipped off the edge.
Jeffran reeled, tumbling, catching a terrifying glimpse of the cobbles far, far below. He reached for the edge of the raft, but the distance was too great. His flailing hand swung through empty air…
And latched, palm to wrist, on to Timoten’s outstretched arm.
* * *
“What will happen to them?” Timoten asked. He and Jeffran stood on the chaotic rooftop, still breathing heavily from the battle. Harried commanders paced and shouted, organizing the disarmament of the perplexed and occasionally weeping savages.
“They’ll be returned home,” Jeffran said, looking with pity on the sudden refugees. “Assuming no new savage leader arises to distort their minds.”
“Emperor be praised. But Timoten, how did you remain free of the trance? By the time that monster was choking me, his influence on the savages had returned. How were you able to attack him?”
“I’d already jumped.” Timoten shrugged and smiled wryly. “Hard to abandon a target mid-leap. You’d distracted him with your first attack. I broke free of his grip long enough to spring to your aid. Then, when I hit him, his concentration faltered again.”
“Fair enough.” Jeffran stretched his weary muscles and clapped his brother on the shoulder. “Come. The sooner I report back to the Eye, the sooner we may return to the highlands.”
Timoten hesitated. “I’ll remain here, I think. I’m…not quite ready to take up normal life again. There are things…memories.” He shuddered.
Jeffran’s hands opened and closed, helpless. “How can I help?”
“You have helped already, Jeffran.” Timoten’s gaze flicked over the crowded rooftop, chaotic but peaceful. “You have helped already.”
Yael of the Strings
John R. Fultz
Among the tents where soldiers whispered of spiders and warlocks, the minstrel walked and strummed his guitarra. He stopped here and there to tell a tale or sing a song that emboldened the hearts of his listeners. Wherever he wandered, the talk turned from nervous worry to headstrong bravado. Farmers’ sons and unseasoned conscripts compared themselves with the heroes in the minstrel’s songs. They looked for his cloak of crimson and gold when he passed near, waving him to their fires and offering mulled wine for their favorite tunes.
Yael Tarasca obliged them all. Such was the duty assigned to him by the Queen of Sharoc. For seven years she had retained Yael as her court minstrel, and she cherished the power of his voice. Yet now her soldiers needed Yael’s presence far more than she did. “Such men as you are priceless in times of war,” she told him, “for your tongue encourages others to spend their lives in service to the throne. Your songs make men hungry for glory. You will go with General Anco to the Valley of Ezerel.”