Akari pointed to the slopes around the battle, the rock and dirt stained yellow. Mines dotted them. “As is every bit of armor or weapon the Abandoned have ever crafted. It’s the reason they always recollect their creations during campaigns.”
“Shouldn’t Balbas’ army be destroying them with melds?” Winslow asked. “Not all of the Abandoned have the advantage of the Blight’s affliction.”
Yan-Harin gestured toward the battle. “They do not need it. Look closer.”
Squinting, Winslow studied the Abandoned. Something about the ones lacking the Blight’s obvious taint, about their scales in particular, nagged at him. He frowned. And then he saw it. Along the exposed portions of their body, the scales didn’t follow natural contours like other Dracodar. They weren’t a seamless fit; they were disjointed. Separate pieces, metallic pieces, were fitted over real scales to match them in color and shape.
“Armor,” he said, shaking his head at the intricacy and genius of it. “Scale armor.”
A rank of several thousand Blazers fired sporadically into the shrouded hilltops. Arrows answered their salvo. A group of Egini warded off the counter attack.
“They seem to be holding their own,” King Menquan said. “Or at least blunting the Farlander assault.”
“An illusion.” Leroi gestured to the Farlander rearguard. “Most of their Soulbreakers are there. And I’m certain they await those firebreathers.”
Winslow’s attention had been so drawn to the actual battle he hadn’t noticed the weapons. Hundreds of them were arrayed behind the rearguard with Farlanders gathered around each, working with brisk efficiency. The majority of the weapons pointed toward the main battle while others aimed at the corpse hills.
“Those can’t be of much use. They’d kill their own,” argued the Darshanese king.
“They intend to.” Everyone turned at the sound of Thar’s voice. Grim-faced, he studied the battle, white brows drawn together. “Look beyond the Abandoned.” Depressions marred the ground, as well as massive gouges. Bodies were strewn all about. Black-robed. Scaled. “I had hoped destroying the mines and raiding Balbas’ supplies would make the firebreathers an ineffective weapon. I was wrong. We did well, but not well enough. Balbas’ operation at Kerin Pass thwarted us.
Worse is the Abandoned’s failure in their efforts to defend against the firebreathers. Nor could they flee.” He pointed toward the yellow crags. “Not with the ocean spanning miles beyond those. So, they did the next best thing: they engaged the enemy in close combat to prevent more casualties. But Balbas’ generals anticipated the strategy. Their vanguard is filled mainly with normal warriors, and a sprinkling of enough converts to be convincing, almost all of them from our side of the world. They’re sacrifices.”
As if to punctuate Thar’s words, the Blazer ranks discharged their firesticks as one in the direction of the corpse hills. Seconds later, the firebreathers belched smoke. The combined attacks pealed like thunder. Winslow gasped as the large kerin balls ripped into the tumultuous mass of combatants, sending man and earth careening into the air. The resulting explosions were unbiased in their decimation, blasting aside friend and foe alike.
Along the corpse hills, wagon-sized chunks of rock and metal flew from within the smoke shroud to strike a matching number of kerin balls. They disintegrated upon impact in a series of booms that choked the air with debris. Several kerin balls blasted into their intended targets. A rain of body parts fell. Smoke along the impacted hills dissipated, revealing hundreds of dead or maimed Abandoned. Already the firebreather operators were readying another barrage.
Not one among Balbas’ men had turned toward the source of the attacks despite their many casualties. The Abandoned, however, fought with renewed vigor, a heightened desperation. They surged forward.
Gritting his teeth against the knot in his stomach, Winslow turned away from the carnage. “We must stop this. Even if it means killing Balbas’ converts to the man.” With the realization, coldness seeped into him. “We bring our firebreathers here.” He pointed along the length of the winding ridge. “To rain destruction upon them while we charge.”
Stomir spoke first. “They’ll turn their weapons on us before we reach them. I say we use a few Soulguards and their shields for added protection.”
“Would be a waste of manpower,” Keedar said. “They have too many firebreathers for that strategy to matter.” Stomir was silent a moment before he nodded. “But you’re right about them hearing us.”
Winslow studied the yellowed, weather-beaten slope below them. “We have our best Manifestors and Alchemists alter the ground to make our charge a silent one. Then we hit them with everything.”
The other leaders conferred with each other. Keedar was leaning over the side of the ereskar, speaking to the three Blighted Brothers he kept close to him. Before long they’d agreed on the strategy.
Winslow commanded his driver to return to the army. Time was not their ally. Another volley was already echoing in his ears when he raced away. He swore he could hear the Abandoned scream, could feel and taste their fear.
“Winslow,” Keedar said, a sense of urgency in his voice, “I think there’s a weakness we could exploit. But it would mean the Blighted Brothers and I won’t be a part of the charge.”
“No, we need everyone for this. We must overwhelm the firebreathers quickly.” The slaughter replayed in Winslow’s head, multiplied tenfold by the possibility of failure. “It was you who said I should give up the idea of saving the converts. I’ve come to accept that, as hard as it was. Now, it seems as if you’re the one who suggests otherwise.”
“I’m not. I still feel as I did before. However, take a moment to consider that this strategy of yours may not work on its own. We’re to charge into the most fearsome enemy Mareshna has known, while we’re outnumbered and underpowered.”
“Suppose what you attempt fails?” Winslow asked. “Then you would have made our charge weaker for nothing.”
“A few hundred Blighted Brothers will be more useful in an ambush.”
Winslow began to insist Keedar join them until he looked in his brother’s eyes. Defiance resided in them. He’d seen it too many times when they trained under Thar. He drew up at the head of the host. “What’s your plan?” He listened, mulling over the potential, but at the same time wondering if it could be accomplished. Rather than voice his doubts, he said, “Brother, take what you need and lead your Blighted Brothers the best you see fit, and may Hazline see us alive at the end of it all. And may she also shine on Mother.”
Keedar offered him a single nod and a tight smile that did not touch his eyes. They clasped arms, and for a moment Winslow felt his own hands tremble. Keedar’s iron grip lent him strength. And then Keedar rose, leaped from the ereskar, and hurried toward the Blighted Brothers.
The group listened to Keedar’s instructions, several going among the supplies to come away with barrels of spark-powder. As he watched them ride away Winslow wondered if he’d made the correct decision. There would be no time for regret if they failed.
With a sigh, he returned his attention to the army’s preparations. The mounted troops had formed and stretched to either side of him. Behind them came the foot soldiers. The firebreathers were all assembled. Troops rolled them up close to the last rank.
Winslow jumped down from the ereskar and headed toward Shags. The hornbear issued a hoarse bellow. “Yes, boy. It’s time for us all to do battle.” He climbed atop Shags, leaned forward, and patted him on the head.
Akari rode up beside Winslow. “Balbas is almost here. We go to face him and hopefully free your mother, one way or another.”
“I understand.” Winslow swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat. He tried not to think of his mother’s possible death. He peered around for Thar and found him riding down to where Yeren waited at the edge of the boneyard. “May Hazline shine on you, Uncle,” he whispered under his breath. A single tear trickled down his cheek.
From the battlefie
ld below came the thunder of enemy firebreathers, a reminder of the battle still to be fought. Not that he needed one.
Stomir, Martel, and the First-Born gathered around him. They nodded their encouragement.
Closing his eyes, Winslow breathed deeply, searching for some semblance of calm. When he opened them, he focused on his army. Grim faces stared back at him, all understanding the price they would pay today, each aware of the glut of bloodshed and death to come.
Turning to face the ridge, he held up one arm. He focused and summoned forth his scales. No pain accompanied them. Glinting golden Mandrigal, he signaled the charge, his heartbeat pounding in his ears to match the angry bellows of the enemy firebreathers.
C averns
K eedar hated the idea of leaving his brother, but there was no other choice. Risks had to be taken for the smallest chance at victory. He forced aside thoughts of his parents, knowing he could do nothing to help their cause. Their battle was beyond him. He focused on the task he’d set for himself.
The army swarmed up the incline and over the ridge, the mounted troops a long snake of animals. Winslow, Stomir, Martel, and the First-Born led them surrounded by Soulguards and Dracodar. Galloping upon a field of air, they descended behind the enemy lines, as swift as they were silent. He hoped their onslaught would remain unnoticed until too late. The infantry followed, the majority of them Blades and melders from across various kingdoms. Dracodar and Soulbreakers rolled the firebreathers up to the crest.
He diverted his attention to the mine-filled slopes to his left, stained yellow with sulfur deposits. Aiming for the largest cavern, he signaled to Chey, Tres, and Eng, magnified his legs, and vaulted across the chasm that separated the escarpments. He landed near the opening, touching down with a feather’s weight. The company of Blighted Brothers alighted around him, the last of them carrying the barrels of spark-powder.
The stench of sulfur dominated the air, wafting out from the mines themselves and any cracks and crevices around them. “Locate the tunnels you spoke of. Find the place we need and light the way. Hurry!” In response to his command, the Brothers disappeared into the caverns.
Turning, he took in the battle. The mounted cohort was nearing the bottom of the slope. The enemy troops were still focused on the Abandoned, their firebreathers spitting death and mutilation.
He smiled as he imagined the shock in store for Balbas’ troops. By now, the Abandoned should have seen Winslow and the others. Keedar couldn’t tell for certain, but it seemed as if they had relented a bit, allowing the enemy to push them back, and thus be sucked into the ambush. Balbas’ warriors surged forward.
It would work. There would be no need for his alternate plan. He almost laughed.
A commotion among the enemy ranks caught his eye. Several warriors had turned and were pointing at the Empire’s oncoming charge. Around at least half the firebreathers, the Farlanders worked to turn the weapons toward the new threat. The remainder continued their barrage at the Abandoned.
Hells’ Angels.
The cavalry line was closing the distance, but their gallop was a trickle of sludge creeping downhill. Behind them, the infantry was that much slower, despite having magnified their legs.
“Faster. Faster, damn it. Reach them before they bring those breathers to bear.” Enthralled, and yet horrified, he watched, rooted to the spot, trying to will the riders to win the race.
Rank after rank of Farlanders and Soulbreakers poured from the spaces between the weapons. Matching the Empire’s army in number, they roared defiance and trotted forward. Keedar picked out the changes among them as they too called upon magnification. The trot became a headlong dash, covering the distance as fast as the cavalry.
He understood the implications. Even if they didn’t defeat the Empire’s warriors, they would delay them long enough for the Farlanders to bring their firebreathers to bear.
A series of roars announced the first salvo from the Empire’s firebreathers along the ridge. Keedar tracked the strikes, hoping their aim was true. The ground exploded either too short or beyond the Farlanders. The operators set about adjusting their aim.
Keedar ground his teeth in frustration and paced back forth, while he watched and waited for word from the Brothers. He picked out Winslow’s golden form and that of his shaggy hornbear, surrounded by Soulguards, Blades, and the First-Born. The Farlanders were a ragged wave, drawing ever closer. The two sides collided in a chaotic mass of armor, flesh, and steel.
From the onset they were evenly matched, neither side giving ground. Winslow’s sword flickered, many of his strokes true. One of the First-Born or a Soulguard was there to help when he faced a Soulbreaker. Keedar wanted to yell a warning at imminent danger and many times he found himself wincing or balling his hands into fists at near misses or whenever his brother received so much as a nick.
The Empire’s firebreathers continued to boom. Several had found their targets, destroying groups of Farlanders. The Farlander weapons began to answer. Earth and stone exploded along the ridge, leaving massive holes. When the volleys struck true, not much was left of man, Dracodar or firebreather.
Keedar paced even faster, resisting the urge to rush into the mines. Patience, he said to himself. Yet, the unfolding battle goaded him to do something, to try to make a difference. He couldn’t help but to think his brother’s misgivings had been right.
At the very moment when he opened his mouth to call back the Blighted Brothers, Eng appeared at the cavern’s mouth. “We found the place.”
Legs magnified, Keedar dashed inside, begging for his brother to hold out long enough.
L ament of S tillness
B ones crunching underfoot, his heartbeat a thud to match each reluctant stride, Thar trudged down to where the Fringes’ barren plains began. Beside him were the two Winds, their faces set in determination. The din of battle rose behind, a storm’s full-throated roar punctuated by peals of thunder.
Ahead, two figures approached, forms dancing within a heat haze that rose from the sand and shale. One, a male, was clad in a pale leather harness and cloth trousers and had the sides of his head shaved bald. The other, a female, wore only a loincloth, but it was her grey scales that elicited Thar’s horrified gasp.
He’d hoped and prayed to see otherwise. Dreams and nightmares of Elin-Lahnim had plagued his days and nights. He’d clung to the dreams, to the likelihood Balbas’ conversion had somehow failed, all the while preparing for the worst. To bear witness to his nightmares felt as if someone had reached into his chest and ripped out his heart.
“Remember, she’s no longer the person you remember,” Akari said. “She’s his Soulbreaker now. Find a way to free her of Balbas’ hold before she can mindbend the other Dracodar. Whatever you do, she must not reach the ridge where she can see them all.”
The words had barely finished before both Winds soared into the sapphire sky, the wake of their leaps ruffling Thar’s hair. Balbas’ form blurred up to them. They met in an eruption of flame and sparks. Thunder rolled.
Ignoring a battle he knew was well beyond him, Thar focused on Elin-Lahnim. She’d broken into a jog. During the trip he’d thought of every single way he might free her. Mindbends were out of the question against the greatest Mesmer he’d ever known. Her physical prowess was almost as daunting. Coupled with the added protection against soul provided by her conversion, his position seemed hopeless. He would need to either beat her unconscious or kill her. Both were unlikely, but the latter stood the slightest of chances. It meant he could fight without restraint even as the very idea tore at him.
Could he do it? Could he take her life as he’d done to countless others? This was the mother of his children, the only woman he ever truly loved, the woman who gave him a purpose when he thought there was none. The woman who challenged him, made him better. He crossed the last of the bones, onto the plains, and headed to her. Images of the first day they met in the Smear threatened to overwhelm him. He saw her raven hair, the hint of green in her
amber eyes, her enthralling smile, the arrogance with which she moved and spoke. Doubt continued to assail him, threatening the resolve built during the journey.
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to see her as she was now: scales grey and dull, claw-tipped fingers spread, eyes dead. She had always said she gave her life, her soul, for her people. The time had come for her to do so in full.
He drew his sword and lengthened his stride. The clamor of battle faded like the wind’s weary sigh across the desolate plain before him. His footsteps sped up. Soon, he too was running, his heart a blacksmith’s hammer, beating the anvil of his chest. Calling upon the depths of his soul, he transformed. Golden scales burst through his brown skin. Fingers grew to claws.
Tingles eased through his body. They became charges, erupting from his pores. In the next instant they’d grown into one complete flow. White lightning crackled across his arms, his chest, his legs.
Elin-Lahnim was a blur of dirty grey flashing toward him. She’d covered twice as much distance as he. Her first mental assault crashed against his nimbus. His soul bulged inward upon impact, but with the help of jin and tern , his nimbus held.
Again and again, she lashed out. And each time he rebuffed her.
He frowned. The attempted mindbends weren’t weak, but he’d expected them to be more potent. In the past her strength had staggered him. Before he could formulate the observation into a counter, she was on him.
Her claws flashed through the air, aimed for his neck and stomach. He met the upper blow with his sword. Dracodarian-forged steel rang, the vibration running up his arm. With the claws of his left hand spread, he swung down and knocked aside the blow to his midsection.
Their eyes met. No recognition emanated from within the black depths of hers.
Upon contact, he drew on his namesake as the Lightning Blade. The power surged from him, sought the path created to her.
Her lips spread into a slow smile. One he returned, certain of the outcome.
The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series Page 92