Reaver's Wail (The Legion of the Wind, Book One)

by Corey Pemberton

  He backed into the shadows until his back touched cool rock. Brenn and Siggi stood beside him, bodies tense, eyes darting to and fro. The archers lay propped on their elbows. They peered over the edge as the army advanced. Their legs twitched.

  The horse hooves grew louder. Calladonian men filled the pass and started to overflow into the second bend, down the slope the Legion had climbed before laying their ambush. Voices. The jangle of steel. The endless groaning of supply carts rolling down the hill.

  Argus swore. He ducked into a tiny ball against the mountain, but even then he felt naked. The shadows that fell on the shelf scattered before a newly-arrived foe: dawn.

  The sun marched just as the Calladonians did. Purple fingers of light reached for them wherever they turned. Soon there would be no escape. The army would spot them and turn their bodies into pincushions.

  How long is this bloody column anyway?

  Willow hissed and pointed over the edge. Argus couldn't hear her, but whatever she said made the other archers pop up onto their knees. They stared into the void, hawks swooping for a field mouse.

  Finally they had him.

  Creak went the bowstrings as the arrows were drawn. The archers trembled at the edge, blowing deep breaths. Waiting for Willow's signal.

  She raised her hand.

  Argus held his breath and prayed to gods old and new.

  Her hand fell.

  Twang.

  The arrows shot into the darkness. At that moment a gust of wind howled through the pass. Argus watched the fletchings zigzag as the arrows disappeared. He held onto the mountainside and swore when he was nearly buffeted off the ledge.

  The archers scrambled to nock more arrows. By the time they regained their footing and drew, the gust had turned into a gale.

  They fired again anyway, sent their arrows and bolt carving violently into the wind, then dropped to their stomachs.

  “No,” said Willow. “It can't be—”

  A volley of arrows clattered against the rocks. Everyone crawled over to the mountainside and huddled against it, covering their heads. The wind died down but a new one replaced it—this one from a hundred arrows whistling through the air.

  “Damnit!” Brenn roared. “Why don't those cowards come up here and—argh!” He stiffened, reached for the arrow that had found his shoulder, ripped it out and snapped it. His blood painted the rock against which he lay, a few shades darker than the rising sun.

  “How did they see us!?” Nasira screamed.

  Siggi shook his head. We need to get out of he—watch it!”

  They rolled to the side just before half a dozen arrows rained down on them. Then came another volley, which sent them rolling back the other way, and a third one after. It was anything but an easy shot from such a distance, but the Calladonian archers were playing a numbers game. They kept lobbing arrows, pinning them.

  “Let's get out of here!” Argus yelled.

  The look in Willow's eyes made him immediately regret the sentiment. “Hold on,” she said. Her green eyes burned. Their very whites grew whiter as they widened, building up an energy Argus couldn't just see, but feel. “I said hold on!”

  She shoved Nasira, the last person standing besides her, to the ground while the pebbles beneath them trembled.

  “Ig valis tellorum!” she screamed, thrusting her arms high. An arrow pierced her back, though she didn't seem to notice it.

  Then came an agonizing grinding sound. Rock on rock, Argus felt the pressure building in the shelf until it bubbled over. Something snapped. Next thing he knew, his heart was in his throat.

  He searched for the mountainside, dizzy, but found nothing but thin air. He watched that mountain shrunk away beneath them, looking over the edge Willow had just made. All the while a tremendous pressure forced him into the earth.

  They were flying.

  Their shelf, once a secure hiding place, had been sheared off from the mountainside.

  Willow stood on the middle of it with her feet spread wide. She kept her eyes toward the sky. Grunting. Thrusting her hands upward. Holding them up just as she'd held up the Cradle for over a century.

  Using all of his strength, Argus lifted his head. He saw nothing but sky the color of dirty water, brightening quickly. The mountainside became a brown squiggle. He was vaguely aware of screams; some of them came from his own mouth.

  Just then, the enormous pressure pinning them eased. It released them all at once, like a giant who'd decided to get up and move on.

  For a sick moment they weren't rising, weren't falling either. Willow just held them floating there above the mountaintops. They screamed and huddled together on the rock shelf, which felt tiny now that it was all alone.

  “What are you doing, woman?” Brenn screamed.

  Willow didn't acknowledge him. She kept her eyes closed and her feet firmly planted. Chanting, she guided the shelf over snow-capped peaks. Once they'd cleared the mountains to the east, she started to lower them.

  They held on. The shelf plummeted. The earth rushed up to meet them and they screamed, yelling for her to slow down.

  Willow opened her eyes. “Ig valis tellorum!”

  Bodies tumbled over Argus and he tumbled too, reaching for something to hold on to. The platform landed heavy. Fissures formed in the shelf from the impact, and it took a moment for Argus to remember where he was.

  Willow stuck out a hand to help him up. “Come on! There's no time to waste!”

  Woozy, Argus stood up and helped Nasira and Harun. Their weapons were gone, their faces glazed with confusion. They patted themselves from head to toe, amazed that they were still intact.

  Brenn and Siggi struggled to their feet beside them. A purple lump bulged on the shaven half of Siggi's head. His eyes wandered about and he regarded them with a drunken grin.

  Brenn said, “I think he hit his head.”

  Argus didn't reply. He was too preoccupied with Willow running down the shelf, which had lodged into the foothills askew. Only then did he remember she'd been hit by an arrow. She sprinted off the shelf with it still lodged in her back, oblivious to the bloodstains.

  They wobbled their way off the platform. Legs shaking, Argus told her about the arrow.

  “Right,” she said, then grimaced as if allowing herself to feel it for the first time. She looked at him. “Can you pull it out?”

  Argus shook his head. He'd done it countless times before, but not on a woman. And certainly not a woman who had managed to find a rare spot in his heart.

  “You do it,” he said to Brenn.

  The Nalavacian grunted. He held her shoulder and yanked it out with one hand before she realized what was happening. Her scream echoed through the foothills. It sent a chill down Argus's spine.

  “It's not so bad,” Brenn said, twirling the bloody arrow. “With the arc and the range they fired from it didn't have a chance to get too deep.” He tossed the arrow aside and made way for Nasira to apply a strip of linen from her sleeve.

  “There will be time for that later,” Willow said. She pointed east, toward the Knavesmire Forest that began where the foothills ended. “Let's get in there before they make it through the pass.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Sky.

  Beautiful sky, just a few slivers of it, but growing the further they went.

  At last they popped through the perimeter of the Knavesmire and into open pasture. It was still dark, and save for a few birds flying overhead the land was still.

  Willow didn't give them time to celebrate. Pale and limping a bit from the arrow, she picked up the march where they'd left off. She followed the creek past logging cottages and old stone bridges and watermills. All of them empty.

  Argus checked over his shoulder often. There were no signs of the empire army, which was possibly headed straight for the city. Ravenous and lightheaded, he stumbled through abandoned villages until the creek joined the River Cauldron. They drank again and went on.

  When they spotted Sorbas, th
e night was gray and cool.

  They made for it even faster than before, not stopping until they were in the mercenary tent city. They spent some of Argus and Harun's gambling winnings to buy enough food to feed a company thrice their size.

  Willow thanked the merchants, but this time she left them with more than a few dragons.

  “The Calladonians are coming,” she told them. “We saw them in the Luskan Pass.”

  * * *

  Word of Calladon's march spread like wildfire.

  An endless stream of mercenaries visited their humble camp while they ate, much too weak to stand. They asked questions and expressed doubts, and many of them rejoiced at the battle to be had.

  The Legion of the Wind sat by the fire they'd hastily made, gulping wine with piles of chicken bones beside them. Argus's limbs ached—his feet worst of all. They lay there and tried to recover, and he could already feel his eyes closing despite the flurry of activity all around.

  Brenn grew more belligerent with every drink. He started to pace around the fire, his shadow swallowing the entire campsite, and using his ax to chase away onlookers.

  “Piss off! Let us rest!”

  Finally, they stopped coming long enough for Argus to do just that. He plunged into a dreamless sleep and awoke with a stiff back and an audience. A dozen nervous eyes had crowded around while they slept, and the woman who stopped closest to him looked familiar.

  “Is it true?” she asked.

  Argus sat up and nodded.

  Gasps rippled through the crowd, and one of the men accidentally stepped onto Brenn's sleeping body. He pulled his sandal away quickly, but not before the hulking Nalavacian fidgeted back to life, groaning and tossing his ale-soaked beard to and fro.

  “Who goes there?” he roared, raising his ax as his eyelids fluttered. “Thought I told you to—” He belched, and the aroma of ale and chicken wafted through camp.

  “M-my apologies,” said the man, who'd darted to the other side of camp with everyone else.

  Guild masters, Argus thought. That explains why they look like they're about to soil their trousers…

  “I know you've traveled far,” said the man, “but there is a rumor swirling around that you encountered the enemy.”

  “I suppose you could say that,” Argus said.

  “And?” said the woman. She stuttered and stepped forward, all nerves and jerky movements. “What news?”

  “They're traveling through the Luskan Pass,” Willow said, who'd awoken and sat cross-legged by the fire.

  “And?” said the woman. She lunged forward and grabbed Willow's shoulders, shaking them. “How many? How fast were they marching? You didn't think to tell us?!”

  Willow's eyes smoldered. “We were so weary we could hardly even move. Besides, we know well just how long news takes to travel in Sorbas. Has to go through the proper channels, of course.”

  “B-b-but the premiere of defense must know!” The woman's eyes rattled about and she clutched Willow tighter. For a second Argus was convinced there would be blows; he just didn't know who would strike first.

  “Let her go,” Brenn said, standing now, suddenly collected and sober. “Or you'll regret it.” His words were reasoned, which was the only thing more terrifying than when they were loud.

  The guild woman shook violently before letting go of the sorceress. She fell to her knees, her eyes wide. “No. No no no…”

  One of the men on the periphery cleared his throat and said, “Did you get any idea of how many? Their supplies and their weapons?”

  The Legion of the Wind looked at each other and shrugged.

  “I'd wager a good thousand,” Siggi said. “Maybe more.”

  “Well-supplied,” said Harun. “With mail and plate. Good weapons too.”

  The guild masters groaned. Sprawled in front of the fire, the woman paled. “How long?” she wondered. “How long until they reach Sorbas?”

  “Maybe tomorrow night if they hurry,” Argus said. “They didn't seem like they were in a hurry, though. That terrain is a nightmare for siege weapons and supply carts.”

  The woman let out a piercing wail before she caught herself and covered her mouth. She crawled toward the other guild masters, whose clothing was emblazoned with a mixture of ships and hammers and scrolls, and spilled tears onto the grass.

  Their voices exploded all around.

  “The walls aren't ready.”

  “Our provisions will last us a few months, but what if they decide on a long siege?”

  “We have to tell the defense guild!”

  “Go on,” Argus said, “tell them. The mercenary companies already know what's sweeping down Luskan Pass.”

  “It isn't up to them!” the woman snapped. “The mercenaries signed the contracts. They're bound to the defense guild's every command.”

  Argus laughed. “I don't think they'll take too kindly to that.” All the mercenary commanders he'd met styled themselves as military geniuses. Chain of command be damned.

  The woman started sputtering again, switching between sadness and anger while the others stood frozen behind her. “They'll obey,” she said as if trying to convince herself. “If they want those dragons, they'll fight together to defend our walls.”

  “Maybe,” Harun said with a shrug. “Maybe not.”

  She spat into the fire. “You six shouldn't have come back. The only reason the premiere sent you was because you were expendable. Little good that did.”

  “Everyone's expendable in Eamon's eyes,” Argus said. “No matter how fine your clothes or stately your homes… it all comes crashing down when they breach those walls.”

  The woman called him a cur before retreating into the heart of the tent city with the other guild masters.

  “This is looking worse and worse,” Nasira said. “How are we supposed to fight together?”

  “That's just a trifle,” said Siggi. “So long as we do what we came here for. Cut off the head, and the body dies. Right, Willow?”

  She nodded, then went over to the embers and sparked a new flame. “I just don't know how we'll get another opportunity like the one we had.”

  “We'll have to make one, then,” Argus said.

  “Just don't tell the guilds,” said Brenn. “The saying is true; a man can't take a shit in Garvahn without a license, a decree, and a guild membership.” He swore when he found his tankard empty, and called for more ale.

  Siggi regaled them with a lengthy tale of the history of Garvahn. The others drifted away one by one to check their supplies and sharpen weapons, though Siggi didn't seem to mind. His story reached a crescendo, the slave revolts, when he was alone, so he finished the tale with the fire as his audience.

  Argus wandered into the outskirts of camp, stretching his weary limbs. Everyone had a different way to prepare for battle. Some grew quiet and prayed while others—like Siggi—talked the nerves away. Argus was usually in the former group, but this time was different.

  This time he had the Five Branches.

  He brought the books over to a cooking fire at the edge of the Night Wolves camp, which was unattended in all the commotion. He picked up the Hearing Branch then put it aside, opening the Touch Branch instead. He spent the next hour squinting at passages until he no longer had to.

  It was morning.

  The Calladonians could arrive that very night, but the thought scattered into the back of his mind. The Five Branches absorbed him so completely that he didn't stop reading them until a yelling Night Wolf mercenary gave him a shove.

  “Haven't you heard? The empire's coming, lad. Sharpen your weapons, say your prayers. Now's not the time for books.”

  Argus closed the book and sneered. He walked back to their camp, a part of him wondering if he could kill that man with the magic he had just learned.

  We touch to wound and to heal, to love and do battle. In our hands lies the spark of life. To plant and to reap, to create tools and fine art…

  He knew the words by heart. But did he
truly understand them? He pored over the first page once more as he strode into camp.

  Willow poked her head through her tent and stared at the hand on the cover. “That isn't the Hearing Branch.”

  Argus put it inside his pack. “I was just looking.”

  Her eyes started to burn like they had when she'd lifted them over a mountain. “Hearing and sight come first. What about that don't you understand?”

  Argus kept a hand close to Reaver, ready to draw if she reached for his books.

  “Fine,” she said. “I've said my piece. It isn't for me to take the Branches away after they've called you.” She walked over to him; he tensed with every step. Willow lay a warm hand on his face. “Whatever you've read in that book, do yourself a favor and forget it. Keep on with the Hearing Branch—”

  “I don't understand a thing. There was one moment, when we were riding with the Wolves down to Sorbas. A flash. Then it was gone, snuffed out like a candle flame.”

  “Keep on,” she said, running her fingers through his hair. “You will understand when the time is right. If you don't get too eager and let it destroy you first…”

  Argus stood perfectly still, savoring the shivers that ran through his scalp.

  Willow pulled away. “This is a lifelong endeavor, Argus. Give it time.”

  “I will.”

  She touched the side of his face again and shook her head. “Liar.” Willow left him with that. Argus watched her disappear into the tent she shared with Nasira. His body ached to go after her. A longing he hadn't felt since his past life in Azmar. Since Janna.

  The others in the Legion of the Wind watched him from far away, talking quietly among themselves. Nasira gave Siggi and Brenn some of the counterfeit dragons she'd made, and they returned minutes later with blood sausage and eggs.

  Argus ate in silence. All around their tiny camp, the sea of tents rocked and swelled. There came shouting and pounding boots, outlandish boasts from the young mercenaries who didn't know any better. One merchant ran right through their camp, apologizing as he chased a skittish horse.