Vengewar

by Kevin J. Anderson

  The churning storm surged along a main boulevard that led all the way down to the harbor. Cobblestones flew up, scattering in all directions. The façades of buildings on either side of the boulevard were left charred with a black smudge of heat like a child’s finger painting.

  The exuberant entity was a firestorm, and that energy fed back into Klovus. Part of him relished this wanton, long-awaited destruction. He ran after the godling, still trying to restrain it. He felt like a boy chasing a runaway puppy.

  The Black Eels raced after it. One assassin leaped into the air and dove into the indistinct mass of energy. Caught up like a dry leaf in a whirlwind, he continued to fight, swinging, punching, attempting to damage an intangible target.

  Three more Black Eels bounded in to surround and attack the godling. One man was lifted up and hurled against a wall. Such a blow would have reduced any normal person to a smear of blood and broken bones, but the Black Eel temporarily hardened his skin into a shell of stone. The building’s stuccoed wall cracked, leaving a divot from the impact. The assassin slumped to the ground, stunned, but he got up and ran after the godling again.

  Klovus cried out, beseeching the deity. “Come back to me!”

  Black Eels threw themselves into the formless whirlwind, trying to find some vulnerable point. Two more assassins were swept up in the cyclone of emotions, thrown high into the air. Their attacks seemed ineffective, yet the godling was distracted. It lifted hammer tentacles and crushed one man in a mammoth blow that even his stone skin could not withstand. More assassins were swatted away like annoying gnats, tossed onto rooftops, or flung down side streets.

  Klovus stood in the middle of the boulevard and strained, pulling with his heart and his mind. “Stop! You are hurting your worshippers.” The godling did not communicate in words or rational thoughts, only energy and emotion, reflecting what had been poured into it.

  The streets emptied as people ducked into buildings for shelter, but the godling damaged walls, ripped down bricks, shattered stucco. Displaced roof tiles fell like grains of sand.

  At last, Klovus established a tenuous hold and managed to tamp down the fury—until a group of angry Hethrren riders galloped in with raised clubs and swords. Recognizing the hated barbarians, the entity snapped the fragile restraints Klovus had in place, and surged forward again.

  The barbarians yowled, challenging one another to bravery or foolhardiness. The godling elongated itself, swirled a cloud arm around a building, and smashed a wall down upon several victims, crushing them. Then it roiled forward and pounded the other Hethrren into broken meat.

  The godling ripped along the main boulevard and tore open the doors and windows of a crowded tavern. Like a cruel child killing flies, it extricated several Hethrren inside and tore off their heads. In doing so, the entity also destroyed the tavern and left Isharan bodies behind. The surviving Black Eels kept running after it, attacking, distracting, trying to slow it.

  Klovus pursued the godling through Serepol, dizzy and disoriented. The thing’s destruction already far exceeded any damage the Hethrren had done. And he himself had caused this—he, Key Priestlord Klovus!

  As the godling flowed toward the harbor, probing into buildings to extricate victims, Klovus sobbed from his efforts to control it. Ahead, he saw the crowded docks and the warships he had commissioned to transport the Hethrren to the unsuspecting Commonwealth. If the godling continued to rush forward, it could sink all those vessels, leaving Serepol Harbor a swamp of shattered masts and cracked hulls.

  Klovus felt his heart lurch with despair, and he staggered to a halt. Another strong and angry presence emerged, different from the Serepol godling, but also familiar. An entity that he knew well.

  Ur-Priest Xion emerged from the harbor temple at the waterfront, raising his hands. The wooden posts and tall carved doors cracked, then burst open as the temple’s front wall exploded outward. Xion summoned his godling and came out to face its foe.

  * * *

  Near Serepol Harbor, Mak Dur and his Utauk crew remained prisoners. Ever since Priestlord Klovus had impounded the Glissand, the Utauks had been held under guard, but at least this run-down waterfront inn was superior to a dungeon.

  The Carp’s Whiskers had fallen on hard times due to bad management and worse food. Near bankruptcy, the owner did not complain when the key priestlord commandeered the place, using Isharan guards to oust the two paying customers (who were actually weeks in arears on their rent), and declared that the captives must remain under house arrest.

  The Glissand’s crew were forced to share beds—which were more spacious than the bunks or hammocks on their ship. The innkeeper fed them, glad to receive a stipend from the empra’s treasury. The Hethrren had occupied inns and taverns along the harbor, but because the Carp’s Whiskers had such a bad reputation, even the barbarians left the place alone. The Isharan guards stationed in front of the inn were bored and inattentive.

  Still, despite the adequate conditions, Mak Dur and his crew were angry at being prevented from sailing home. Over and over, he drew a circle around his heart. “The beginning is the end is the beginning.” Somehow, he needed to warn other Utauks to stay away, but he couldn’t do anything unless he escaped from Serepol.

  Then a miracle happened.

  As the godling rampaged down to the harbor, the streets became a fiery cataclysm. Mak Dur and his sailors peered through the inn’s open windows as the whirlwind of energy and faith smashed warehouses and shops, hunted down Hethrren, and roared toward the docks.

  The guards assigned to watch them looked at one another in dismay, and without speaking a word, ran off to join the great battle.

  Reaching a decision, Mak Dur pulled all of his sailors together. “No one is watching us! The Glissand is unguarded. Cra, this is our chance to take the ship back. We’ll cut the ropes and sail away, and no one will be able to catch us.”

  “Those Isharan warships could pursue us, Voyagier,” warned a crewman named Sarrum. “There must be at least thirty ships ready to set sail!”

  “Not while that thing is rampaging,” said Heith, the navigator. “Look at it!”

  Mak Dur shook his head. “Cra, do you think any of those scows could sail faster than my beautiful Glissand? Do you think their captains are better than I am?” He rushed his men into the inn’s main room. Outside, the shouts and roars grew louder, the unleashed deity smashing buildings even closer to the Carp’s Whiskers.

  The innkeeper ran into the room, looking harried. He was balding and prone to easy perspiration. He stepped behind the long wooden bar. “But you have orders to stay here! The key priestlord will be upset. You are prisoners.”

  Mak Dur flashed him a sardonic frown. “Do we need to kill you so we can get away?”

  The innkeeper backed toward the bar. “No, no, that won’t be necessary.”

  “Cra, we should at least subdue you.”

  With a chorus of shouts, the Utauk sailors all agreed. Grinning, Sarrum said, “I’m sure I can find a rope somewhere.”

  The innkeeper waved his hands. “Truly, that won’t be necessary! Hear us, save us! Let’s say I was out back tending the compost heap, and that I didn’t even notice you escaping. I will blame it on those guards who fled, leaving the inn unprotected. They shouldn’t have left dangerous criminals without supervision.”

  Impatient, Mak Dur gestured to his sailors. “It’s best if we make this look legitimate. Just to be sure.”

  The stout innkeeper tried to waddle away, but Heith and Sarrum seized him, tied a rag around his mouth, then trussed him. “Now your explanations will be much more believable once they find you.” The innkeeper grunted and struggled, but the Glissand’s crew ran out into the streets, rushing toward their precious ship tied up at the docks.

  In front of the harbor temple, the wild godling rose up to clash with a second roaring entity. The two collided with tremendous fury.

  90

  WHEN Kollanan galloped off with part of the city guard and his
standing army, some of whom were still lashing on their armor, he left Queen Tafira in charge of the city. Lasis joined the king, as a bonded Brava should, while Tafira remained behind the castle walls with her guard staff protected against any attack.

  She could not guess how long they would be gone, how many fighters they might lose. Tafira sent castle guards up to the high turrets to keep watch for frostwreths, redoubled lookouts on the wall towers. Fellstaff Castle was secure, but she tucked two throwing knives at her waist nevertheless.

  She wore embroidered slippers and a fur-lined robe that brought to mind the styles of the village where she had grown up, where Kollanan had rescued her from her own people—and his. That was so long ago, back when people had believed their only real enemies were other humans. The idea of resurrected wreths or an awakening dragon would have sounded ludicrous.

  Tafira feared their worst enemy might still be human hatred. Konag Mandan’s decree had proved that much. How could he have ordered an attack on an unsuspecting Norterran town? Captain Rondo’s insolent attitude remained unchanged despite his having faced the frostwreths himself, and although he and his men had finally been confined, she did not feel a sense of relief. Tafira had seen hatred in the captain’s eyes, while her husband likely noticed only a dispute. Koll did not grasp the prejudice Tafira had dealt with all her life, and she could read signs that were invisible to him.

  Kollanan should have sent them back to Convera a month ago, but her husband had a huge heart and bravery to rival any man’s. She loved him with all her being, and she would not have changed a moment of her life with him. For three decades she had tried to fit in among the people even as she retained part of her Isharan identity. All along she believed the Norterran subjects had accepted her. They loved their queen because they loved their king so much.

  But Tafira was not blind to the occasional sidelong glances, the quickly covered expressions of discomfort when she walked in Fellstaff. She had never thought such uneasiness would become an issue—until now.

  * * *

  Struggling to maintain his dignity, Captain Rondo marched alongside the Norterran guards. He had been kept in a holding room while Kollanan and his soldiers armed themselves, mounted up, and rode off for Lord Bahlen’s besieged city. Now Rondo and his remaining sixteen men had been rounded up and were being taken to the barracks, where they would await judgment after the traitorous king returned. The captain kept his gaze forward, his blue cape over his shoulders. They had all been disarmed, without resistance.

  Rondo’s surviving soldiers fell in beside him, the ones left after the foolhardy and disorganized attack on the frostwreth fortress. Three good men had died on that battlefield. Now the others looked at one another, uneasy and angry. Rondo felt as if he were being torn in all directions.

  The six Fellstaff guards were suspicious, their swords drawn as they marched Rondo and his men back to the sturdy barracks. “We’ll hold you there until King Kollanan decides what to do.” The man’s voice had a sneering accusatory undertone. “Ancestors’ blood, aren’t we under attack from enough sides?”

  A second guard said, “I’d rather be fighting with the king to help defend Yanton, but instead we have to babysit hooligans!” The remaining Norterran soldiers murmured in agreement.

  Rondo still didn’t respond, but he had been with his men long enough that he felt their mutual outrage, like spilled lamp oil just waiting for a spark. King Kollanan had prevented them from returning home for far too long, making excuses. Kollanan seemed uninterested in avenging his murdered brother, which made Rondo lose all respect for him. The wreths were powerful and mysterious, but they had made no move, beyond building a fortress on a distant and isolated lake. Meanwhile, the Isharans had declared overt war!

  Rondo glanced to his side, where Sergeant Headan’s face was ruddy with anger, his jaw clenched. They had served together for many years and knew each other’s nuances. He saw that the man was ready to spring, and in a flash of decision he gave a slight nod.

  It was as if lightning had cracked down from the clouds. Headan reached beneath his cloak to his back, snatched a knife hidden behind his thick belt, spun, and drove it into the throat of the escort guard next to him.

  At the same moment, Rondo reacted like a released spring. He raised his boot and kicked hard into the chest of the guard next to him. The blow sent the soldier reeling.

  Like a stinging scorpion, Headan yanked his knife back out, lunged for the guard’s sword even as the dying man reached up to his gushing neck, and ripped the blade free. “Captain!” In a swift motion, he tossed the sword to Rondo, who caught it and struck down the guard he had kicked.

  “Men, defend yourselves!” Rondo yelled, and his well-trained soldiers sprang into action, even though they were unarmed.

  Making quick use of his knife again, Headan fell upon a second guard.

  Rondo disarmed the guard he had killed and handed the extra sword to one of his own men as he charged at a third Norterran guard. The Commonwealth soldiers outnumbered their armed opponents, and they threw themselves recklessly upon the guards, two and three at a time.

  “For Konag Mandan!”

  “We will not be held prisoner by a traitorous king.”

  Kollanan’s great mistake had been in believing that Rondo and his men would respect his authority and supposed nobility.

  The castle guards were well armed and well practiced, but Rondo’s men were desperate. Two of his own men died—five casualties now—but they made short work of their minders.

  Realizing that the clamor of the battle was much too loud in the night, Rondo held up his bloody sword. “To the stables! Quickly!” Like a band of brigands, they rushed across the courtyard. “We will head northeast, stay off the roads. We have to get over the mountains, out of Norterra, and report to Konag Mandan.”

  “He’ll be pleased with the information we can give him,” said Headan.

  “I wish we could bring more than that,” Rondo said under his breath as they burst into the stables. “Saddle up! Grab cloaks, blankets. We ride.”

  He heard a shout in the courtyard and looked through the stable’s open gates. And saw exactly what he needed.

  * * *

  Lanterns were lit in the streets, and torches burned outside the castle, but Tafira continued to feel uneasy, always wary of danger from the frostwreths. Restless, she cinched her robe’s waistband tight and stepped out into the night. She immediately sensed something terribly wrong. She heard running men, urgent but hushed shouts. She smelled blood.

  In the shadowy expanse of the courtyard, she saw bodies sprawled on the ground. She ran ahead, bending over to see murdered soldiers wearing Norterran colors—the castle guards who had watched Rondo and his soldiers!

  She crouched over one man with a gash across his chest and heard him gurgling his last breaths. She sprang to her feet and shouted, “Guards!”

  On the other side of the courtyard, the stable doors were open. Men moved inside, grabbing tack, saddling mounts. Horses whinnied. Putting her hands on the hilts of her two throwing daggers, Tafira ran toward the furtive shapes. “Guards!”

  Shouts responded from inside the castle. Guards would come soon, but she doubted it would be in time. Tafira ran to the stables. “Here! They are trying to get away!”

  Leading horses and running, Captain Rondo and his men emerged to meet her with predatory expressions. Several of them had thrown on dark cloaks or stable blankets to hide their Commonwealth colors.

  Facing them, Tafira drew upon all her experience as queen. She doubted they would follow her command, but maybe some of the men would hesitate. “You are defying the king’s order. Stand down!”

  Two of the men touched the hilts of their swords. Rondo said, “Kollanan is not my king, and I will not fight against my own people.”

  “We are your own people!” she snapped. She stepped forward, putting the full weight of command into her bearing. “Norterra is part of the Commonwealth, and I am issuing the q
ueen’s command.”

  “You are not my queen either,” Rondo retorted. “You are a foreigner, and your commands mean even less than Kollanan’s.” He looked hungry. “Take her as a hostage. The konag can use her as leverage to make Norterra obey him.”

  Tafira drew both throwing knives and stood ready to defend herself. “Guards!” She heard the jingle of armor, running footsteps as her guards emerged from the castle, but they were on the other side of the courtyard.

  “Take her. Tie her up and sling her over my saddle,” Rondo said. “We’ll ride hard tonight.”

  The Commonwealth soldiers spread out to close in around her. Kollanan always told Tafira to do what was necessary, to be prepared for an attack. She had trained, and she was deadly.

  As the men sprang toward her, Tafira threw her knives, planting one up to the hilt in the first man’s throat and stabbing another in the chest. The two fell onto the straw of the stable floor, but her actions only enraged the others. And she had no more knives.

  They swarmed forward. Tafira tried to run, shouting again for her guards, but three men seized her. She thrashed like a wild animal, fighting, punching. She clawed Headan’s face, hoping to gouge out his eye, but only left red streaks down his cheek. She screamed as they lashed her arms and ankles, and tossed her like a rolled rug on the front of Rondo’s saddle.

  Leaving their dead behind, two in the stable and two in the courtyard, the men galloped pell-mell into the streets of Fellstaff.

  Tafira squirmed and saw a handful of castle workers and guards responding to the commotion as Rondo’s soldiers stampeded past. Pokle, with wide eyes and a pale face, bleated out an alarm. “The queen! They are taking the queen!”

  But most of the castle guards were away with Kollanan to help rescue Lord Bahlen. Only a few armed soldiers ran after Tafira, attempting to stop the abductors.