by K. J. Coble
Strayden frowned. “Figured you had it, by now.”
“And how would I have known, except from your mouth?” Harald wrinkled his nose, shook his head. “By Scintallos, you stink. What is that?”
Strayden glanced down at his stained tunic, still-filthy flesh. He’d gotten too drunk too fast; the ruin of horrible things remained tacky and reeking upon him. “You know we ran into trouble, last night,” he rumbled at the other Vothan, quickly tiring of whatever game this was.
“I know nothing,” Harald growled back.
Strayden started to snarl at the man, but held his words at bay as confusion reigned in his mind. Tentatively, “But...Xass Kham—”
“Told me nothing, either,” Harald cut him off.
Strayden blinked. “You saw him?”
“Of course, fool. The Emperor called a council at his tent and issued orders for the move. The Prince was there with everyone else. I tried to pull him aside, but he said nothing, just stared at me like I wasn’t there.”
That...cannot be. Strayden gave himself a shake. “He said nothing?”
“I just told you that!” Harald snapped. “Did you take a blow to the head? What the hells happened up there in that dead place?” He leaned further over in the saddle and lowered his voice again. “Did the Xyxian succeed?”
Memories of the Prince standing before that weird plaque filled Strayden’s drink-hazed brain. He nodded slowly. “Yes.”
Harald visibly relaxed, straightened back up in the saddle and seemed to listen to a flurry of horn calls in the near distance. He scowled. “This whole thing is rushed. We should wait till we have word from the pezenek riders.”
“They haven’t returned?” Strayden asked, though in truth it was more to move on from the subject that left him still-reeling.
“Not a one,” Harald replied, not seeming to notice his discomfiture. The cavalry notes changed and he grimaced. “The Emperor’s call. Damn, this business never ends.” He glared down at Strayden. “I’ll be wanting a full account of your little trip when we camp tonight, wherever the hells that ends up being. You understand?”
Strayden ground his teeth at the imperious tone, had never really gotten used to taking orders from the Vothan who’d once been a shivering pup under his own command—not unlike young Horsa. “We’ll talk,” he replied.
“Cavalry’s got the vanguard, this time,” Harald said, raising his voice and gathering up the reins. He began to wheel his horse. “We’ll be formed up close to the Emperor’s guard, in column of march—unless some idiot has changed their mind again.” He glowered down, one more time. “For Scintallos’ sake, sort yourself out before we have to leave!”
“Gruzh favors the brave, Harald,” Strayden replied, “not so much the pretty!”
Hegruum snorted, but didn’t rise to the bait. He gave his mount a little jerk to whip it about and then a kick to spur it on its way.
Strayden watched him gallop off on sprays of sand, still not believing what he’d heard.
Somehow, rather than relieved, he felt worse.
URIUS FOUND THAT HE couldn’t take his eyes off Xass Kham, even as he waited atop his destrier with the other nobles clustered around Bazul, listening to the Emperor talk. The Xyxian sat his horse stiffly and hardly moved, not a twitch of the heel to settle the beast, not a single fidget with the reins. In fact, the Duke wasn’t sure Kham had even blinked.
“Still no word?” Bazul growled.
Urius felt eyes on him and met the Emperor’s stare. “None, Highness, not even a single runner. The pezeneks are unreliable, to be certain, but this goes beyond any of that.”
“You think enemy action?”
“I think it has to be,” Urius replied and gestured into the wastes. “They’re out there, closer than we thought.”
“And we’re blind to them,” Bazul snapped.
“We have other scouts, sire.”
“And perhaps I should have sent them, instead.”
Urius carefully pinched his lips together and bowed his head to hide the blaze in his stare, the reddening of his face. To say he hated his cousin would be to understate. But the disappearance of the pezeneks alarmed him more—and the weird silence of Xass Kham.
Bazul turned in the saddle to Veridas, like all of the nobles sweating in full kit and anticipating a march and a fight. Behind them, the army clattered and rumbled to ready itself. “Your Ossonian mounted archers are mustered?”
Veridas didn’t bother to hide his smirk towards Urius. “Of course, Your Highness. I can give the word immediately.”
“Do so.” Bazul glanced up at the sun. “It’ll be midmorning before anyone’s on the move, at this rate. I want the course ahead thoroughly patrolled.” His gaze flicked towards Urius again, flashed. “And see if they can’t find our wayward nomads.”
“We should have had some word,” Urius insisted. “Highness, again, the Xyxians must be closer than we thought. They must have destroyed my patrols.”
“There can be but little water out there,” Bazul replied with a headshake. “And their force was badly battered, exhausted, and carrying wounded with them. If the claimants of the Deathless Throne wanted to keep their army intact, at all, they’d have to have fallen back to the Oasis of Shamir, at least.” The Emperor pivoted to Xass Kham. “Is that not so, my Prince?”
All gazes turned to Kham. The Xyxian turned woodenly to meet Bazul’s gaze. Dark flesh looked waxy, almost unreal, and there was no light behind his eyes. His horse twitched once, snorted, and pawed the ground in obvious unease. But it didn’t react further as its rider bowed once to the Emperor.
“Very good,” Bazul said, as though Kham’s stiff, silent response was perfectly normal. His hard smile killed any will amongst the nobles to question it. “Then we will proceed as originally intended.”
What the hells is wrong with him? Urius thought, looking Kham over. He’d sent no word of the outcome of his Zadam expedition and Hegruum, the useless brute, had discovered little more. Whatever had transpired last night, the phantom lingering by the Emperor’s side—almost dependently—did not look like a man that’d found success.
“When we run into them,” Bazul was saying, “though I doubt that’ll be today, the light cavalry will form a screen to delay contact and give the cataphracts time to deploy. The heavies will then charge to provoke a response, before falling back behind the infantry and reforming on the flanks.” He shielded his face with a hand as he stared out into the wastes. “We should reach that line of dunes by midafternoon. If the Xyxians intend to delay us, as my nervous cousin suggests—” that sent chuckles through the gathering, and Urius forced a smile “—that would be the first spot.” He looked around at his nobles again. “But I don’t anticipate that.”
“An excellent plan, sire,” Veridas opined with overblown obedience.
“We’ll see,” Bazul replied with a self-deprecating smile that invited chuckles. “Did any of you have anything to add?” He was obviously being polite; Bazul wasn’t interested in more. “Very good,” he said brightly. “Let’s get things moving, then!”
The council broke up at that. Urius watched Kham, waited for an opportunity to get close. Bazul was trotting off to the head of his still-mustering Guard column. Kham seemed to watch him emptily until the Emperor glanced back his way and a flinch went through the Xyxian. Mechanically, the prince nudged his horse about and started it at a slow walk toward the Xyxian side of the army camp.
Urius wheeled his mount about and nudged it into a trot after the Prince, made like their courses would naturally converge as the Duke returned to his own contingent.
But Veridas crossed his horse into Urius’ path abruptly. “You know, I hate to admit this, Eddar,” the other Duke hissed quietly, “but I’ve my doubts, too.”
Urius blinked and met the man’s combative stare. “What?” Damn it, the Xyxian was slipping away. In moments, his attempt to engage him would be obvious to any who saw—notably Bazul’s ever-present spies.
“Your scouting parting vanished,” Veridas said, “and now Bazul’s all hell-fired in a rush.” The other noble shook his head. “Feels like a mess ready to happen.”
Urius gave him his full attention, despairing now to catch up to Kham. “And what do you presume to do about it, my lord?”
“Nothing,” Verdias snorted. He drew a hand across his meaty brow and blew out an exasperated breath. “Not a damned thing, I suppose. Bazul’s made up his mind.” He glowered at Urius. “But I thought you should know I’ll be on my guard.”
“As will I,” Urius replied. A glance showed him Kham being joined by some of his pack of courtiers. The prince rode right through them, still that weird stiffness, and hardly acknowledge their presence. They hastened to follow with confused looks and murmuring, trotted off into the distance.
Urius sighed. “Always.”
THE OSSONIAN RIDERS were beginning to shake out into smaller parties and move out to shouted orders from mounted Scintallan nobles. Natives of mountain and wood, raised to hunting from horseback and backcountry blood feuds, they were well-suited to skirmishing and harassment. But as they cantered out into the wastes, pale flesh sweating and staining crude, animal skin jerkins, they looked ill-suited to scouting the open sands.
That the pezeneks hadn’t returned was on everyone’s mind. Some had begun to murmur of unease. Others whispered about disaster.
Standing beside her wasteland pony, its reins in hand, perspiring under the heavy cowl and cloak that disguised her gender and purpose, Asyra was beginning to ponder the latter. That feeling intensified as her gaze caught the riders of the Xyxian contingent passing across the front of the mustering army—became a knife stroke of shock as she beheld the leader of that party.
How?
She blinked three times, each time expecting the vision of Xass Kham to clear. But it didn’t and the Xyxian prince crossed right before her, erect in the saddle, unsupported, and apparently very much alive. But she’d seen his corpse, even smelled it. The thing riding at the head of his coterie could not possibly be him.
Or could it...? Iciness doused Asyra nerves as she watched the Xyxians ride on. She knew of one being who could make what she’d seen happen.
A glance over her shoulder, towards the heart of the camp, showed her Lyssa’s tents. All around it, much of the camp was being disassembled—though hastily-built earthworks, hospital tents, and guard detachments spoke of some marching camp to be left behind. The little compound of the White Guard, it appeared, would remain, as well.
And there was no sign of the sorceress, herself.
Dust choked the air as the Ossonians kicked to a gallop and rode off into the distance, and more of the army was lumbering into motion, medium and heavy cavalry columns trudging into a walk, infantry slogging after these. Dread weighted the air, too. Soon, heat of a most punishing sort would add to the burden.
The Xyxians were moving out, Xass Kham near their head.
It’s her, has to be. Asyra pulled her pony about, started back for the White Guard tents. What the hells does she think she’s doing? She can’t keep that up. That Lyssa might be doing it to protect her and Strayden added to the anxiety. Can’t let her...
A pinching at her ring finger brought Asyra to a halt. She didn’t need to look down to know that her Ring of the Eye was the source.
“We are summoned,” a voice called tauntingly from the dusty air. Clover emerged from it, mounted and crossing before Asyra on her own pony. She eased it to a halt and drew back her own cowl—nearly the same disguise as Asyra’s—to let her gaze flash out. “Or hadn’t you noticed?”
“Of course, I did.” Asyra leapt up into the saddle and nudged the pony up alongside Clover’s. “I was on my way.”
“Sure, you were.” Clover toed her pony into a trot that Asyra immediately matched. Her course took them towards the pavilions of the Emperor’s entourage—still in the process of being torn-down. “That wasn’t nice, by the way,” the spy said bitterly.
“What wasn’t?”
“Not telling me about the little delve you accompanied your Vothan friends upon.”
The cool returned to Asyra’s nerves. “Just a little side-gig.”
“I heard things didn’t go exactly smoothly.”
Cool became iciness.
“Sounds like some of the Vothans didn’t make it back,” Clover went on.
Asyra hid her breath of relief. The other woman hadn’t ferreted out the full extent of the disaster, then. “Some of the ghost stories were true,” she admitted. “And the Vothans aren’t known for being careful.”
A glittering retinue clearly marked the Emperor’s place in the bustle of breaking camp, guards, nobles, and courtiers. A smaller group lingered off to one side, no less shiny or fine, but clearly set on real business. One member of this group, mounted and in notably finery of near-purple silks and flash of gems, was fidgeting with a finger.
A ring.
The Eyes of the Emperor halted before this man, who lowered his hand and didn’t look at them as he spoke. “It astounds me that we bother to keep you all around.”
Asyra and Clover exchanged a look of confusion.
He turned to them now, his high, bejeweled turban shadowing coldly-gleaming eyes. His was the role of Chamberlain to the Emperor, a post he’d held so long folk no longer referred to him by name—if they remembered it, at all—just “the Chamberlain”.
“This disaster with the Xyxian puppet,” he hissed.
The iciness resumed, but Asyra feigned continued confusion, glanced at Clover with a shrug to hide her fear.
“The pair of you are going to insist you knew nothing?” he snarled and, when Clover began to protest, he waved her off furiously. “It matters little! Eyes of the Emperor...you see only that which is convenient.”
“My Lord,” Asyra pressed him, desperate for a change of subject, “what is it we can do for you?”
“Ride ahead of the army,” he replied. “Follow the trail of the Ossonians. When they begin to tire and wander—as the lazy scoundrels are certain to do—you will press on. Find the Xyxian army. Duke Urius thinks they’re close and, while I rarely concur with the overambitious weasel, on this I agree.”
“Long-range scouting is not exactly a specialty of the Eyes,” Clover pointed out hesitantly.
“Well, you’re not exactly useful to me here, either, are you?” he snapped. “Provision yourselves from the Emperor’s baggage train; water, weapons, whatever you need. But be quick about it. I will not trust Bazul’s work to the whims of the wastes or of fate.” He held up his hand, showed his many-ringed fingers, notably the one with a plainer-crafted cousin to the spies’. “Signal when you have sighted the enemy.”
The spies nodded obediently.
The Chamberlain waved by way of dismissal.
“Can’t believe I’m going to say this,” Asyra mumbled as they rode away from him, back towards the baggage train, “but I think I’d rather be taking Shade’s orders again.”
Clover chuckled. “Better get a move on. The Ossonians are already halfway to the horizon.” She nudged her mount to a faster gait.
Asyra didn’t quite try to keep up, cast a glance towards the White Guard compound, once more. Nothing felt right. Scouting parties disappeared. Dead princes riding around camp. And as her gaze wandered to the escarpment—as it often did, almost without her willing it—the ruins there, she felt a resistance within her, a sense that she should not be going.
You shouldn’t, Thyss-Ulea’s syrupy voice purred in her mind. A warm laugh followed. But you’ll be back here, soon enough.
What does that mean? Asyra though—and was no longer alarmed that she carried on a dialogue with a phantom.
You’ll see.
WITHIN DARKNESS, SHUT away from light by the folds of her tent and with not even a single candle lit, Lyssa sat. Cross-legged and hands settled palms-down on her ankles, she didn’t move, didn’t see or hear. Modyn prowled outside. The camp rumbled and came apart
around her. The Scintallan army moved off on its deadly rendezvous. She noticed it, but didn’t.
She occupied an envelope of artificial calm woven deliberately about her. The world did not pierce. Her only thoughts were on the spell and on its subject. She didn’t think of the hideousness of the act, only sustaining it.
Somewhere, a dead man rode at the head of his retinue, with only her will keeping him erect in the saddle, keeping his eyes open, his mouth issuing simple grunts of command. Only her thoughts kept the process of decomposition from its terrible work upon his dead form. Only her magic kept the others from suspecting—and that only incompletely. The further he got from her, the greater the strain.
And somewhere, the soul of Xass Kham would know his rest had been interrupted, and plot its revenge.
But her father—the Emperor—had commanded.
“THIS IS A COCK-UP,” Durrak growled, trudging at Strayden’s side.
The sun pounded down, well into afternoon, a brassy presence never letting up. Sweat dripped into Strayden’s eyes constantly and he’d given up on wiping it away. He could feel himself baking and the waterskin was already dry. Skin itched till it burned. Gear weighed a thousand tons. They’d only been at the march a half a day, but it felt like years.
“What was your first guess?” he quipped back at the Nuburran.
Durrak squinted up into the sky. “Those.”
Strayden followed his look, saw the wisps of cloud marring the aching yellow endlessness, realized they weren’t clouds by the cawing. He grunted at the carrion birds, stirred to the air when the army marched through the partially-buried ruins of the battlefield and now prowling above it like a shadow.
“Maybe they know something we don’t,” he murmured.
“I don’t need them to know this is already a mess,” Durrak said. He glanced over his shoulder. “Army’s already strung out for miles. We’ve got lads begging to drop out because of the heat. Water’s running low—”