Springwar

by Tom Deitz

  Which made no sense—until he recalled that the tunnel he’d taken ran beneath the hold, clear through to a narrow valley beyond. One with walls too steep to climb, except in one place which … Nyllol (if that was the name that went with the face in his memory) had shown him.

  The geens were looking at him, too: all eager eyes, hungry teeth, and grasping finger-claws. And he could feel their thoughts even more eagerly, and knew they were feeling his as well—and relishing his pain even as they withdrew from it. There were only two inside; the rest were gathered over by the light, as though daring each other to venture into the snow.

  More geens.

  That would be good.

  The landing became a ledge that ran toward that opening. He followed it, holding his breath as the stone dipped lower—almost low enough for a geen to leap up and grab hold. Which gave him an uncanny thrill.

  Come on, he thought at them, brandishing the sword. I am armed the same as you. I have things that can cut even you in twain.

  And then he lost himself again as he thought about all this fabulous armor and how wonderful it was to wear it, wondering where it had come from and for whom it had been made.

  Abruptly, he was at the entrance.

  A cleft in the wall moved him from dark to light, still above the geens’ level. Ahead and to the left was the stockade tower through which the beasts had initially been admitted. The only point of egress from the valley. And the only safe way down to see his friends.

  He took it, lost himself again, and only returned to what he might once have considered awareness when he was on the ground, facing the massive portcullis beyond which they lay.

  They knew he was there, too. He could feel them buzzing and gibbering in his head. Looking at things that made him what he was—who he was. And learning.

  From nowhere—for surely such a thing could not be his thought—came an incessant driving desire.

  free us free us free us free us free us free us …

  Like drums in his head, which made the pain there even worse.

  Without thinking about it, he found the quickest solution. Forgetting the complex apparatus that drove the portcullis, with all the safeguards that went with it, he raised the sword, which he seemed unable to release, and slammed it against the oak.

  Light promptly reached out and grabbed him, carried him backward, and hurled him to the earth.

  Which didn’t hurt, because he was unconscious by the time he hit.

  When he returned to himself, which was a little more himself than heretofore, it was to observe a sea of leathery legs flashing by his face.

  … us free us free us free us free us free us free us free … came the litany, but louder by far was the rasp of deadly claws.

  Rrath had sense enough to roll beneath a stone trough set against a wall.

  Beyond hope, none found him there.

  But then the last one paused, lowered its head, and sniffed right up into his sweating, steel-framed face.

  And moved on—after a casual swipe of foreclaw found the collar of his hauberk and ripped down, as if in irritation.

  Laying Rrath’s chest open to the bone.

  The pain was epic, and he truly expected to die. Instead, he flailed feebly with the sword. More lightning answered. A growl and a half scream, half yelp, and the thing danced away.

  Leaving Rrath alone with his pain.

  It was the worst thing he’d ever felt, as he lay there in his own blood, while power that could not be released nevertheless fought for release within him.

  Even as another, very subtly, began an equally incessant call.

  Darkness found him, but not the darkness he’d flirted with before; this was a deeper kind, like standing on the edge of an abyss, in which, if one threw oneself, there would be no pain, no pleasure, no worries. Nothing at all but falling.

  But he didn’t want to do that. Part of him still wanted to be Rrath. And that part had reawakened. Somehow, too, that part sorted the fractured chaos of Rrath’s memories into something that made marginal sense. Eron was at war. Ixti had invaded. The only way life would ever be as it was before all these terrible things had happened was if Eron won.

  If …

  There was nothing he could do, however, but lie here and hurt and bleed.

  You are a weather-witch, that voice reminded him again.

  And the ground upon which he lay whispered back agreement.

  Rrath agreed as well. By the power he could feel in the earth itself, this was the perfect place for a witching.

  The pain in his head likewise knew it. But it also knew that an even more powerful place from which to drink of the land lay nearby.

  Power welled up in him.

  CHAPTER XXXVII:

  FROM BEYOND

  (ERON: SOUTH OF ERON GORGE-HIGH SPRING: DAY XIII-EARLY MORNING)

  Gynn’s horse slipped as the ground grew steeper, revealing a stretch of ice that had not yet melted, though water was everywhere.

  Even his kingdom was melting, he thought grimly, as he let the aptly named Snowmelt find his balance. Even these walls, which had been built “just in case” the last time Ixti invaded. Even his plan of defense, which had depended too much on three untried youths, an uncertain King, and an unproven weapon.

  Well, he still had steel. The Sword of Air, in fact, for Myx had that moment returned with that blade. Would it be enough, however? Would its own odd magic prove to be boon or bane?

  At least there was something to do besides stand around and give orders that were better given by others—like Tryffon. Trouble was, the people needed someone to follow, and while Tryffon of War was by far their best tactician, Gynn—or the title that rode with him—was far more charismatic to the rank and file.

  He also needed activity at the best of times, and certainly needed it now.

  And since Snowmelt had his pace again, and the ground was flattening, he was able to lead the Guard toward the breach that had suddenly appeared in the walls, likely wasting five years’ production of quick-fire.

  Sacred quick-fire, the Priests said.

  They’d give him grief for it, too—if he survived. If anyone ever let them out of the Hall of Clans.

  Barrax would have fun there—if he got that far. Or Priest-Clan would have fun with him.

  And then the terrain flattened before him, and all at once he was closer. Reality narrowed to the pounding of hooves, the rustling jingle of mail and armor, and the flash of crimson tabards on the two young Guardsmen to either side.

  The wind shifted, and he caught the first shift of smoke, and saw the first dead Eronese soldier lying flat on his black with a stone as big as he was across him, while another, pinned down by an arm, thrashed and groaned and shouted at his side.

  And then more stones—and fire—and yelling and cries. A surge of soldiers came tearing through a rent in the walls three spans wide, and for the first time, in truth, Gynn syn Argen-el faced the armies of Ixti.

  He had his horse, armored and padded better than he, and that horse had been well trained in War-Hold, by Tryffon himself, whose mother was out of Beast, and so knew more about such things than anyone alive. Thus, the horse did most of the work—kicking, rearing, and kicking again; hooves slamming into heads and shoulders, hips and haunches knocking men about. Tearing at faces and necks with the fantastic metal spikes on his chamfron. Blood splattered the air like rain, from swords that were flashing down to meet swords flashing up in turn. He saw faces—a few—hard, tanned men from Ixti who might never have seen their own king as close as they saw death from a foreign sovereign.

  He had to be careful, though; he dared not get too close. He was the King, and without him this could all collapse—for beyond Tryffon and four of his subchiefs, there was no clear chain of command. Another thing for the next Council—if it ever reconvened.

  “Majesty!” A young voice, full of warning. Gynn whipped his head around, barely in time to dodge a spear someone thrust at him—the first of those they’d
encountered. He batted the shaft aside with a metal-clad forearm, and saw it glance across the horse’s chamfron, then lodge between two of its articulated plates. The horse jerked, then charged ahead—wrenching the shaft from the wielder’s hands, leaving him defenseless. Gynn left him for someone else to cut down, and spurred to the heart of the battle. That gave him a brief glance uphill toward the citadel, where his troops were converging on the breach like water through a ruptured dam.

  Soon enough, those few Ixtians who made it through the wall would find themselves facing three Eronese to every one of them. It would be slow going, but there was no way they could win.

  But there was also a hole in the wall, and no way to patch it now.

  Still, he had two more walls behind him, and the citadel.

  But then he heard something that chilled him. Distant, but not as far off as he liked.

  More barking.

  He paused, alert for the explosion.

  And heard a whistling-hiss instead.

  A crossbow bolt had found him.

  It was good he’d opened his mouth to yell an order, because the point sailed between his teeth without touching them, and exited through his left cheek, just behind the guard. The pain was preposterous, but what bothered Gynn more was the fact that he was gagging and couldn’t speak.

  Having no choice, he hauled his mount back, letting the battle surge ahead of him. Clamping his teeth over the shaft, and against the pain, he sheathed his sword and reached up with his free hand to grab the arrowhead. There was no point in breaking it in two, with the flesh of his cheek so thin. A yank got it partway through, but he almost passed out. His stomach twisted and threatened to revolt.

  Another jerk, and the fletching tickled his tongue.

  He did vomit then—an ignominious thing for a King—but a final yank freed the bolt. Blood coursed down his face, but he had no time to worry about that. “Eron!” he yelled hoarsely, to let them know he lived.

  “Eron!” the Guard roared back, and then more soldiers, as everyone in earshot took up the cry.

  But another cry eclipsed all others, as a second explosion sent a section of wall farther on crashing down, isolating the tower that stood between. Gynn watched helplessly as blocks of stone as big as his head rose into the heavens, then rained down once more.

  He ducked, tried to raise his shield, but choked on blood running down his throat and botched the movement. A block caught his shoulder and it went numb.

  So it was that he was unable to shield himself from another that grazed the back of his skull. He saw the ground rush up to meet him, but Gynn never impacted.

  Rather, he kept falling and falling and falling …

  The Sword of Air had tasted blood but twice.

  Avall was still reeling from being one place and then another, fast as thought. And still shivering from the effort. He blinked, staggered, found room for himself as men and women moved away from where he’d suddenly appeared in their midst. “Strynn,” he blurted, almost a demand: the first word off his lips being the last thing he’d thought before the gem had given him a wish he didn’t know he had wished, and brought him here.

  He saw it all, too, in dreadful slow motion. Acts that took but instants to occur: Merryn pawing her way over the rampart, looking like death and resurrection together, eyes going wide as she recognized him, but dismissing him with a raised brow as she twisted around to help Strynn over the edge while crossbow bolts peppered the battlements and everyone along the edge who could raised a shield to cover those in the center.

  He also saw Eddyn’s face—though Eddyn didn’t see him—as his rival let go and began his backward fall.

  Peace was what he saw there.

  And what he wished on his rival, when he dared look where he sprawled bleeding in the snow.

  Strynn was too shocked to notice him, besides which, he wore war gear, which didn’t render him instantly recognizable.

  While Merryn tended her, he turned to help two others—deserters, he assumed—over the wall. The last man’s foot brought the last bit of rope ladder with it, and the tower was suddenly too full.

  Especially when they heard the explosion to the east.

  Where Avall had been. Rann, he thought in panic—but did not touch the gem. Instead, he wrenched off his helm, knelt by Strynn, and saw her grin at him, looking as savage as he’d ever seen her. Until her face clouded abruptly.

  “Eddyn …?”

  “Dead,” Avall answered dully, wondering why he felt loss instead of relief. In spite of Eddyn’s flaws, there was one less genius in the world. One less man capable of making wonders.

  Merryn laid a hand on his shoulder. “Piece of wall went down over there. You might want to … on foot.”

  “King’s moving,” someone else cried.

  Yet still Avall hesitated, eyeing the captive Ixtians who were being summarily stripped of weapons and interrogated, while someone tried to tend the arrow that transfixed the man’s shoulder. He looked pale beneath his tan. But not familiar.

  “Tozri!” Merryn cried. “Oh, Eight. And … Elvix?”

  “You killed Olrix,” Elvix said bitterly. “And … Eddyn?”

  All at once she hurled herself at Merryn, who simply reached out and grabbed her forearms, while a larger man from War-Hold moved to restrain her. “Not now,” Merryn spat. “I didn’t recognize you and I’m sorry, and I’ll make it up to you however I can. But not now. If you’re deserters, grab a sword. If not, we’ll have to take you prisoner. You have two breaths to give us whichever proof you can.”

  “Where’s Kraxxi?” Tozri coughed instead.

  “Not here,” Merryn growled, with an uncertain look that gave Avall pause indeed.

  “Nor with us, either,” Elvix gritted, still acting like two souls possessed her—one with sense, the other bent on vengeance. “There was the night the lightning came down and destroyed our prison. The night it leapt from door to door.”

  “That was me,” Merryn chuckled, not bothering to explain. “He was already gone then.”

  Tozri eyed the battlefield. “He could be anywhere. Barrax would have brought him along so he could gloat.”

  “Maybe,” Elvix snorted. “Or he could be rotting beside a road somewhere. Gods, but I wish we still had our rings.”

  Avall started to reply, but a second explosion split the air. Even there, a shot away, stone rained down. Avall felt something wrench at his mind, and sat down abruptly. It was as though something had been there and was no longer.

  “The King,” Strynn managed, scooting back to lean against the rampart. “He’s …”

  “Not dead, yet not alive,” Avall managed. “I’d better get back there. I—”

  His comment was cut short by the most terrible sound he could imagine.

  A long, honking, screeching cry—the cry that haunted the sleep of many an Eronese boy or girl for eighths after they first heard it. Avall shivered as it was repeated, then doubled, and redoubled, to comprise a cacophony of dread.

  Geens!

  His hair prickled. Chills that had nothing to do with place-jumping danced across his body.

  Scrabbling sounds joined those cries, as they became nearer and clearer—almost on top of them. And with those cries, now, came fleeting bits of sensations, instincts, and emotions, slashing across his mind like whips.

  … us free us free us free us free …

  Geen thought.

  Not unlike birkit thought, actually, but rawer and less disciplined.

  But clearly with intent behind it … and, buried deeper, desire.

  More shrieks—

  Then the impossible.

  Avall could do nothing but stand and gape as dark shapes appeared atop the ridge above the escarpment where the wall ended—paused there briefly, cut out against the sky …

  And leapt down.

  Ten spans.

  Into snow.

  Legs like steel springs took that impact, while feet with dagger claws spread more force upon the
ground.

  And suddenly the Ixtian army found itself at war not with a kingdom’s worth of scholar-artisans, but with the rawest forces of ravening nature itself.

  Arrows flew, and crossbow bolts, but few struck anything. Those that did caught leathery flesh and lodged—which only provoked wilder anger.

  A pair of claws flicked out. Blood spurted as a man’s head snapped back with no throat to support it. Another geen leapt straight up and kicked out with both hind feet, sending soldiers sprawling—from force or desire to escape. A second leaping kick followed, and this time its talons trailed something shiny and bluish that Avall recognized as human entrails tangled with the gleam of mail.

  But where had these things come from?

  For that matter, was there any reason to assume they wouldn’t turn on the Eronese?

  And even if they did not, would this number, large as it was, be sufficient?

  The beasts were taking wounds now, and one was down. The air stank of blood and fear, viscera and voided bowels. But the Ixtians were falling back in disorder. Few dared to fire their crossbows lest they hit their own comrades. Never mind that the geens moved too fast to make good targets. Nor was there room for the kind of maneuvering needed to fell the beasts.

  Avall watched with Merryn to one side and Strynn to the other. He’d forgotten the rest of the battle. Forgotten the King and Rann and the war and the stolen gems.

  And then he forgot in truth as, from nowhere, lightning hit the air. A burst of stark white followed—a white so pure it was almost without color; yet so strong it well-nigh burned out his eyes. Directly atop it came thunder.

  It was like the cry of all those below, but redoubled and powered by the strongest gale, the most impossible winter hurricane. It shook the earth, and it shook the sky, and it shook that very tower.

  A noise too huge for human ears to encompass.

  The geens on the ground screamed challenge. Avall felt a mix of recognition and raw terror flash through his consciousness. And though still half-blind, he had sense enough to realize that the lightning had come not from the cloudless sky, but from somewhere closer and to the right. The west. From whence the geens had come.