The king noted with some confusion that Elèndere was already missing, but was relieved to see that Vanelorn had drawn Calàthiél. Malade, Aeolil’s towering guardsman, wielded the ungainly bulk of Gliyhtmuong. Another aulden vaulted to the attack, however, and he turned his attention to deflecting her well-aimed strike. The impact knocked the breath from him, as well as any further thought of the missing blade.
“Willanel,” Vanelorn cried, but Guillaume had lost sight of him in the melee. “Your flank!”
The captal was on Guillaume’s left, in what used to be the second rank, but was now well into the third and perilously close to the king. Willanel’s cross guard was locked up with the thin fae blade of his attacker. He tried to push her back with brute strength, where he had the advantage of her, but she held him there, exposed, just long enough for one of her fae sisters to run him through with a leaf-headed spear. He convulsed on the wooden shaft, useless and quivering, his spine severed. His killer shouted something in her native tongue and pressed toward Guillaume. The king saw a similar fate awaiting him if he couldn’t gain a breath of space between him and his own assailant.
Agrylon leaned on his staff, breathing hard, his lips moving in a spell that might take a moment too long to craft. Sweat glistened on the creased skin of his aged face.
They’re fast, the king thought with a grimace. Too fast for old men.
Vanelorn grabbed Willanel’s body and pushed it down the spear to the haft, saddling the spearwoman with his now-sagging dead weight and stalling her advance. It slowed her for a heartbeat, and the grey knight wasted no time in running her through. The smoldering orange-red blade of Calàthiél parted the metal scales of her armor with a hiss and a scrape and emerged bloodied from her back. She dropped the spear and reached for a hilt at her belt, but Vanelorn twisted the blade as he withdrew it, and she fell, weeping blood from her split chest.
It proved just enough time for Agrylon to finish his enchantment and raise a wall of wind around them with a deafening roar. Vanelorn was with them in the eye of the conjured storm, but the rest were pushed back with the aulden.
Agrylon’s eyelids fluttered, and he stumbled to one knee.
So very familiar, the king thought. All his defenders dead or dying around him, an unassailable foe pressing in, just him and Vanelorn left. This time there was no Dragonheart – no man skipping between shadows to strike like shifting winds on all sides of the assailed king.
How the Calahyr feared him, he remembered, laboring to catch his breath in the lull of battle. Guillaume had never believed the stories told about the Cythe and their painted warriors, whatever they called them in that maddening barbarous tongue of theirs. But that day the stories proved true, and Guillaume swore to never doubt such tales again – and also, never to speak of it. Still loyal, that one. Loyal to the death even after he knew.
The aulden rushed them. Guillaume braced himself, but the raging air keened in protest and threw its attackers back like an angry spirit.
“To the king,” a deep voice bellowed, like an echo of his memory. Then again, “To the king!”
Guillaume could only make out faint shapes through the blurring whirlwind, but he could see the silhouette of Gliyhtmuong, limned in blood-red flame, burning through the shadows. The rallying cry brought some spirit back to the defenders, and the flaming sword ignited hope as the fae fell back.
“Burn them!” exhorted Guillaume. “Burn them one and all!”
Agrylon’s eyes narrowed, and a frown pinched the corners of his mouth.
The cyclone faltered.
Vanelorn edged closer to the king until they stood back-to-back. They turned in a slow circle, surveying the blasted ruin of the royal pavilion, and the veterans realized that their exultation had been premature. The aulden retreat had drawn off the guard, and the three men stood alone as the main battle now raged two dozen feet away.
Into the empty space danced a graceful figure in blue-green mail, her sword aglow with an inner fire. It traced an incandescent after-image in the air as she darted past the wild swing of Agrylon’s staff and out of Guillaume’s field of vision.
Although he could not see the fight, he could feel Vanelorn’s muscles laboring hard. Guillaume spun to fight side-by-side with his old friend and protector, only to find the aulden already vanished – and a long sagging rent in the lord high marshal’s mail. Calàthiél dangled loose in Vanelorn’s grip, and his knees buckled. Too late, Guillaume saw that hastening to aid the embattled knight had in fact left his back undefended. The aulden drew Agrylon out with a feint and spun back, striking Vanelorn across his back with a hard backswing that sliced through armor, flesh and bone. The old knight fell flat and lay still. Blood spread from his inert body, pooling on the ancient wood as his breath grew shallow.
Guillaume marveled that the aulden had woven her attack between them in such a way that Agrylon could not unleash his spells for fear of killing the king or the marshal. He had no doubt that she could kill him, and that she would. He could see the trajectory of her line of attack, and he was between her and the wizard.
Agrylon called out and gestured at Vanelorn, and his limp body flew like a discarded ragdoll into the aulden’s approach. It slammed into her, knocking her to the side with a wet thump and a gasp of pain from the dying knight.
It spared Guillaume death for a moment, and he took full advantage of his reprieve. He turned to run, but came up short at the aulden rushing toward him, her swords drawn. Another one! He almost cried out, but clenched his jaw shut and raised his blade in a belated, desperate parry. She rushed past him, shouting in the aulden tongue, swords a blur of motion, and it was Guillaume’s turn, at long last, to stand agape.
The wilhorwhyr, he thought in confused relief.
Guillaume had been a warrior since the time he could lift a sword. He had killed his first man when nary a bit of stubble darkened his chin. He was no stranger to combat. But he had never seen a display like that of the two aulden before him. They were a whirl of shining steel and twisting limbs, and it was a beautiful, terrifying sight to behold.
They are not mortal, he reminded himself. With every impossible movement, every sword stroke, every parry, the reality of it settled in. They are not like us.
“Agrylon,” he said, in a hoarse whisper. He knew in the core of his being what must be done.
The Black Robe turned.
“Bring down your fire,” he commanded. “Burn them both to ash.”
Brohan studied the way-gate with a careful eye. The spell had threaded the essence of the mortal realm into a dense knot, and then expanded the weave to hold open a doorway through the Veil. A corresponding knot had created a similar opening from the world of Faerie. These two knots were then interwoven and joined at this singular point, creating a way-bridge between the two worlds. It was a Greater Spell, there was no doubt of that, the like of which Brohan had not seen in a score of years, but simple magic could undo complexity as easily as a plain, sharp blade could slice through the most complicated weavework of a fine tapestry. Destruction was less work than creation, requiring more force than control, but in this case there was a significant risk in the endeavour. Undoing the spell quickly, cutting the fabric of the worlds, meant discharging those bound energies in a sudden hemorrhage rather than a controlled bleed.
The master bard deconstructed the binding magic of the way-gate one thread at a time, first one from the mortal edge, then from Faerie. As the iiyir shot from the constraints of the spell, Brohan channeled it into the waiting, thirsty well of Elèndere. A more powerful wizard might have done so with less effort, or with less pain, but the channeling of such power left him sweating, tense and hissing curses under his breath.
“Almost,” he said to Aeolil as he paused to recover his strength. The turn of the tides had thrown a fine silt of Shadow into the ur’iiyir, and the taint both tired and pained him. “Almost have it.”
“Are there more coming?” she asked.
“Yes,” he ans
wered, peering into the distorted haze of the Way. He could see the faerie host through the shifting colors and mists, and he judged that whatever had prompted Meimniyl to lead the Ceearmyltu to war, this was no feint or half-hearted attack – it was the opening salvo of conquest. And they would be arriving at this side of the way-bridge very soon, indeed.
He looked around Saint Kaissus Field in apprehension. Although the pavilions seemed to be repelling the attack, or at least holding their own with the help of the Black Robes, elsewhere things were considerably more grim. If any more aulden came through the way-gate, even a handful, it might very well tip the balance beyond what Rel and Agrylon could compensate.
“If I can’t close the Way soon…” Brohan’s voice trailed off as an unexpected surge in the tides drew his attention back to the way-gate. The aulden within were now in disarray, their formation scattering as a seething ball of white-hot fire erupted from all sides around them. It was no spell that he recognized, and in fact, it seemed more like a wild discharge of iiyir, a chaotic storm front moving through the Veil, than an intentional, coherent casting of any sort.
It almost looks like…
“Aeolil,” he said, dull with a sudden realization. “The gate is collapsing.”
Aeolil’s young face slackened with relief. “Goo–”
“No.” He turned to her and squeezed her shoulder gently. For the panic that was welling up in him, his words were surprisingly calm. “It’s not good. Not at all. First, there will be a Minor Devastation worth of wildfire blowing through the way-gate. And I can’t close it in time.” He sighed. That wasn’t entirely true. “Not from this side.”
“Not from this side?” Aeolil repeated, her brow furrowing.
“I won’t need this anymore,” he said, handing Elèndere to Aeolil. Her short-lived look of relief had now transformed to a tight expression of fear. Before she could utter any protest, Brohan stepped through the gate. “If Inulf lives when this is all done, tell him I enjoyed the elder vintage. He’ll understand.”
“Brohan!”
“Bring down your wards. All of them. This is going to hurt less if you are divested from the tides.”
“Let me help you,” she pleaded, taking a tentative step toward the gate.
Brohan smiled. “I think not,” he said, even as the heat of angry lightning singed the back of his neck. His fingers described a series of complicated patterns in the air as he spoke, and he felt the tides bend to his summons. “With any luck at all, this will be but an end to one movement and not the end of my song. I have rather a long one planned out. I do hate an unresolved chord.” He grimaced as the nimbus of the firestorm washed over him. “Tell Cal to be careful,” he shouted as the conflagration enveloped him, and the edges of the way-gate stitched themselves together. “Keep an eye –”
The portal closed, and he finished his sentence with an agonized scream.
The tides exploded around him, filling the way-bridge with flames and screams and scattered bodies.
And darkness followed the fire.
Artygalle had been killed several times, by his count, or should have been if not for the kin-wrought armor he wore. He was battered and bruised, tired and sore, and his ears were ringing from a glancing blow to his helm – but alive, he somehow still remained. The fae were even falling back from him now when he charged, and it seemed that perhaps he and his band of motley commoners might turn the tide in their corner of the battlefield. But then the battlefield itself turned traitor, and that hope dissolved as the living ilyela came to life around them.
Panic ran through the ranks as the haunting song began and the limbs stretched out to grab and trip and hold the humans.
Treesingers! Artygalle looked about wildly, trying to find the source of the song. Only one voice, he thought with some small relief. Only one.
Artygalle saw her, not two yards away, just as Windthane fell prey to the snarled grasp of wooden fingers closing around his hooves. Curling vines snaked up his rear legs, closing tight around his hocks. The horse kicked and wheeled, but could not break free, and the ilyela dragged him down. Artygalle escaped the saddle and stumbled away before the horse could roll on top of him. He kicked his way through tangling roots and cut at the reaching limbs and whipping vines. The old tree had been sleeping for hundreds of years, but once fully awake and at the call of such a powerful singer, Artygalle knew it would all be over for them soon. He had to reach the treesinger. He had to kill her before that could happen.
The aulden took full advantage of the turning tide in the battle, and Artygalle watched in horror as their shining swords poised like shards of rainbow to slay his now captive host. “No!” he screamed, still too far to strike and end the song. “No!”
The treesinger followed Artygalle’s hopeless gaze, and the words of her song trailed off, sticking in her throat. “Na’a!” she shouted, instead.
Artygalle pushed quickly through the flaccid ilyela, wondering why she called the attack to a halt. He was mere steps from her, his sword raised.
“Na’a!” she repeated, and the look of despair on her face stopped Artygalle’s charge. Tears streaked her blood-spattered cheeks. He stood poised, but a sword-length away. “Na’a!” she cried again.
The fae warriors finally heeded her command and lowered their weapons, some even dropping them at their feet.
Artygalle held his sword steady at her throat. A ring of holly and ilyela blossoms hung from her neck. She’s of the cayl, he realized. “Yield,” he said, almost pleading. “He alei’ih,” he repeated in aulden. “Ieylulki.”
Her voice was like a sad song, melodic but without joy. “I end it. I end it, now,” she said. “He alei’ih! He alei’ih, Ceearmyltu ne!”
Artygalle blinked, stunned by her surrender. She, who could have unleashed the whole of the massive grove that men called Saint Kaissus Field upon them, and brought death to hundreds in but a hand’s span – she had ended the attack as suddenly as it began. She’d meant the song to end the fighting, but not in the way he’d expected.
Artygalle opened his mouth to thank her, but before he could speak, she thrust herself forward onto his sword. The point pierced her throat just above the collarbone and exited out the back of her neck. She looked up at Artygalle, the sadness in her eyes draining to a vacant stare as the light of life left her. He stood there, transfixed by the sight. He took his shaking hands from the hilt. Her corpse fell over. He would have screamed, but his legs failed him, and he dropped next to the dead caylaeni.
There came a peal of thunder from the middle of the list, where not long ago he had tilted for the King’s Lance. Artygalle flinched from the noise and blinked at the bright light, but he was surprised to see the aulden falling in paroxysmal fits of pain, some even passing out, in the wake of the blast.
In the stillness that followed, Artygalle half expected it to rain.
Rain would be nice.
He closed his eyes, numb and nauseous. Exhausted.
Artygalle removed his helm. The air was pungent with the smells of battle. Blood, bowel, and iron. A nicker drew his attention to Windthane, who was struggling to stand. Artygalle wanted to sit, and rest, and be sick about the death and dying around him, but he moved over to his mount instead. He whispered soothing words, quieting the spooked horse as he freed it from the remains of the ilyela root.
When he looked up again, a group of knights sifted through the bodies. Ezriel Malminnion led them, his black and silver surcoat sprayed in red. He surveyed the scene with a critical eye. “You did well, Sir Artygalle,” he said. “Fought bravely.”
“She surrendered, Your Grace,” Artygalle explained.
“A sword to the throat will take the fight out of most anyone,” quipped a familiar voice. Calamyr walked over from Ezriel’s left, holding a stained cloak to an injured arm. His smile was tense, and his face pale. “You made good terms.”
Garath was not far behind his friend. Though unhurt, his mood was not so light. “We should finish the rest
of them while we can,” he said.
“Murder does not befit a warrior,” chastised Ezriel. He frowned at his brother and shook his head with a sigh. “Regardless, their fate is not in your hands.”
“She surrendered,” repeated Artygalle. “You do not slay an enemy that yields.”
“Just so,” agreed Ezriel. “Come, Sir Artygalle. Many good men died this day, and we will pay them all our respects. But first we must tend to the living. We must see to the king.”
Artygalle looked up at the royal pavilion. The king was just now being rejoined with his guard. He thought he recognized Symmlrey, unsteady on her feet, blade shaking in her hand, as the Royal Guard converged on her. One of the knights struck at her from behind.
“Hold!” Artygalle yelled, setting off at a run. “Hold!”
It was no longer the king he was worried about.
CHAPTER SIXTY
RETREAT TO CONQUEST
“TURN back!” Hiruld’s shock and confusion had transformed to anger. His face was crimson, his hands balled into fists. “Why have we run to ground?”
Vaujn pressed him forward. “Surviving the day is our victory, my prince.”
Hiruld whirled, trying to push back against the flow of his underkin guards. “I can fight! By the Swords, I can fight.”
Vaujn kept a firm hand on the prince’s midsection, preventing his attempt to break ranks. “We can all fight. No question. What you can’t do is die. Right? That’s the rub. Best way to keep you alive is not to fight. Not now.”
“It’s not right,” Hiruld fumed, his voice a growling whisper.
“Maybe not,” agreed Vaujn, trying to give the prince a sympathetic frown as he prodded him forward again, “but it is best.”
The undertunnels shook from the noise of combat above – indiscernible sounds, rumblings, and an occasional crack like thunder ran through the earth. Dirt sifted loose from the root-woven ceiling, sprinkling their helms and cloaks with a fine layer of grimy dust. Vaujn kept on, trying not to think too much about what transpired above. They had to get the prince to safety. Who they had left behind to die would be a question for another time.
In Siege of Daylight Page 71