Captain Rondo turned, knife in hand. “What’s that?”
Pale figures emerged from the trees, strange warriors with ivory hair, corpse-pale skin, and eyes the color of dull steel. They rode shaggy white creatures larger than bears, and they were armed with swords made of ice and quicksilver. Their armor was a metallic blue.
“Wreths!” Tafira hissed.
The campfire had attracted the ominous warriors. Emerging from the forest, they exuded the power of magic and superior strength.
Rondo’s men scrambled in alarm. One ran to snatch his throwing knife from the pine trunk beside her.
The captain stepped forward to meet the strangers. “We are soldiers of the Commonwealth. We serve Konag Mandan.” He squared his shoulders, as if those words might strike fear into the frostwreths.
The lead warrior sniffed. “We do not care.” His wolf-steed growled, sounding like a cauldron about to boil over.
The escort soldiers stood tense and amazed, not knowing how to respond. Tafira could not move, lashed to the silver pine.
“We have no quarrel with you,” said Rondo.
The wreths let out a resonant laughter that sounded like breaking ice. “We will make one.”
With unhurried, even casual movements, the frostwreths advanced. The first spear skewered Rondo through the chest. The point was so sharp that it glided all the way through his breastbone and sprouted out his spine. The captain clasped the spiraled shaft, then collapsed backward.
The Commonwealth soldiers ran forward to fight. They barely had time to let out a battle cry before the wreths were upon them. The pale warriors hacked and stabbed methodically, like farmers harvesting a garden.
Tied to the tree, Tafira could only watch in horror tinged with satisfaction. Her abductors died—decapitated, impaled, chopped to pieces. The wreths unleashed the wolf-steeds, and the white beasts fell upon the hobbled horses, tearing the animals apart. The fighting came so close that Tafira was splattered with blood.
Though the battle-seasoned Commonwealth soldiers outnumbered the frostwreths two to one, the fighting was over in short order. Tafira had not made a sound. All of her captors lay dead in bloody disarray.
The lead wreth had barely exerted himself, although his long hair was tangled from the effort. “This is what Queen Onn commanded us to do.”
“It is a success, Irri,” said one of the blood-streaked warriors.
“It is a beginning.” He produced a large snowball, which he held in the palm of one hand. As he concentrated, it glowed and became smooth and clear, a sphere of ice. The warrior—Irri—held the transparent ball and turned in a full circle, collecting images of the slaughtered soldiers. Still holding up the globe, he approached Tafira, bound to her tree. She remained perfectly still, like a rabbit staring down a viper.
“And you are another one.” Irri regarded her with cold intensity. Tafira didn’t know whether to thank the wreths for killing her captors. It was not the sort of revenge she had hoped for.
“I am the queen of Norterra,” she said. “They were my enemies.”
The wreth man continued to stare at her with eyes the dull gray of winter clouds. “Human squabbles do not concern us. You all belong to us.”
A tangible chill rippled from the warrior’s body. The white wolf-steeds continued to feed loudly on the dead horses. Tafira imagined the wreths would take her prisoner, bring her to the frozen palace.
The thought that she might see her grandson Birch gave her a glint of hope, but she hated these wreths as much as Kollanan did. They had marched down from the north and killed Jhaqi and her family, destroyed the village.
“Queen Onn told us to kill any human we found,” another wreth reminded Irri. “As an example.”
Still holding up his ice sphere, the lead warrior nodded. “She did. There is no mercy.”
Without taunting, without threat, he drew an ice knife with his other hand and made a quick move. The edge was so sharp that Tafira barely felt the cut as he slashed across her throat.
98
RAISING his hands, Key Priestlord Klovus begged his godling. The monstrous entity roiled like a terrible storm at the edge of the ruined waterfront. After consuming the harbor godling, it struggled to contain its form and incorporate new powers, which gave Klovus an opening.
The connection that he always had with the godlings reeled out, and he tried to capture, or at least calm, the gigantic deity. He had once experienced the same affinity for the harbor godling, and now he felt its loss deep in his heart.
Around him, a swath of Serepol had been ravaged, the buildings smashed and toppled. Fires crackled in the ruins, and bodies lay strewn about, some of them Hethrren, some of them local residents.
But Klovus stared only at the monstrous godling. “Please stop!” he said, and his words finally penetrated the thing’s consciousness. He stretched his arms higher. “You must stop! This is our city. Your city, your people.” He began to sob. “You hurt the followers who put their faith in you.”
The godling lashed out with a pillar of smoke and fire, then clenched itself and withdrew. So many worshippers had placed their hopes and prayers into this entity, but now that belief was replaced with terror. On the godling’s uncertain surface, heads and faces rose like bubbles in a boiling pot, many of them the shaggy heads of barbarians wearing demonic expressions, one face after another. The godling was trying to communicate something.
“Yes, the Hethrren,” Klovus said, relieved that the entity had halted its rampage. “The Hethrren are our enemies. I told you to kill them.”
Lightning flashed in the godling’s heart, and additional cloudy arms stretched out. The enormous force swelled at the waterfront. The fish market was in ruins. The harbor temple had been damaged, its façade scorched and blasted.
“Yes, you killed many Hethrren,” Klovus said. “That was what I wanted you to do.” He felt the struggling force within him, and his heart pounded as if it might explode from the pressure. “But you also hurt Serepol! You caused too much damage. You need to control yourself.”
He sucked in a deep breath. His throat and lungs burned. “I am your key priestlord.” He kept his arms outstretched, his fingers splayed, and now he drew them into fists. “I am your master!”
Like a browbeaten child, the godling shuddered. For all its swooping magnificence, Klovus could feel that its essence was much more diffuse after such an enormous expenditure of energy. Even though it had destroyed and consumed its rival, it had begun to fade substantially. When he had used the deity to lift enormous stone blocks for the construction, the people had offered their full faith, fed it with their awe. But now the terrified worshippers had fled, withdrawing their support, and the godling was cast adrift from its temple, its source.
Some of the crowd watched the priestlord from peripheral buildings. They feared his strength as much as they feared the godling. “Hear us, save us.” It started as a low chant, then others raised the prayer higher. “Hear us, save us!”
Klovus realized that they were chanting for his benefit, giving him strength to control the godling. “I need you to obey,” he said to the thing. “There will be other battles, other enemies. The Hethrren have been hurt. You did your task, for now. You need to rest.”
Like a deflating bladder, the godling shuddered, became less of a behemoth. Klovus used all of his power, all of his faith to wrestle it into submission. “Follow me!”
He strode off, and the godling moved like a ball of storm clouds behind him. The Hethrren visages roiling inside the entity’s body had disappeared, but more faces appeared now, bubbling up—the face of Klovus, all of them. His heart filled with warmth, dedication, even love at this message from the godling.
The people withdrew as Klovus led the deity back down the ruined streets. He moved at a brisk pace, even though he was exhausted from all the running and shouting, and from his mental grappling with the godling. He saw several nondescript men following him along the side streets, blending with the
crowd. Black Eels. Their clothes were torn, some were bloody; two of them had visibly broken arms, but they showed no pain. He was glad that some of them had survived.
He was also shaken to see the dead bodies that littered the streets. Wailing people bent over fallen family or friends; stunned merchants stared at the ruins of their businesses; fathers dug through collapsed walls and shouted the names of lost family members. Others just stood staring and broken. Many of the victims were barbarians, smashed and torn with obvious malice, but they did not outnumber the dead of ordinary Serepol citizens.
Klovus prodded the godling as he hurried toward the Magnifica. As soon as they approached the temple square, the entity expanded in the air and picked up speed, as if anxious to be home. It flowed formless, an inferno of dust and smoke, and became more substantial as it rose to the upper platform of the half-constructed temple. It towered like a snarling guard dog but chained, able to threaten but no longer attack.
Klovus stood below, looking up. “Go! Return behind your spelldoor. Gather your strength until I call upon you again. The people will make sacrifices to reward you for what you have done.” He pushed aside his doubts and fears because he knew the thing could sense them. The godling pulled itself back into the temple like smoke retreating into a chimney.
Klovus climbed the thick stone steps to the first level, saw the shattered sculptures that were meant to represent other godlings across Ishara. He raised his hands and pushed with his mind one last time. “Back to your place.”
The godling obeyed. As soon as it was gone, the key priestlord felt the last vestiges of strength drain from him, and he collapsed onto the temple steps. He placed his head in his hands, blind to everything else around him. Right now he didn’t want to see the damage, did not want to count the dead.
He feared the people would pray to the empra again with redoubled fervor.
Klovus didn’t know how long he rested there, drained and incalculably weak, but he looked up when he heard a gruff voice. Several battered Hethrren approached him, their hair knotted and tangled, their furs mangled. One man bled from his cheek down into his unruly beard.
And Magda. The ugly woman stood before him unharmed. She was massive, intimidating, as ominous as the godling in her own way. He could see traces of fear and respect behind her expression. She loomed over him, and Klovus tried not to cringe. He was vulnerable now. She could simply kill him.
“I thought you were weak and soft, lover. But you have a power that I did not realize before.” Her grin revealed her sharpened tooth. “I have reconsidered my opinion of you. You are a poor lover, but you may yet be useful.” She embraced him with a beefy arm, nearly crushing his shoulders. “Together, we can overwhelm the Commonwealth.”
99
THE dragon had flown off, injured and defeated, but the damage it did lingered across the Utauk camp. A thunderous silence filled the night as the world settled into the numb aftermath. Adan heard the snap of fires and the moans of the wounded, smelled blood, smoke, and dirt.
Beside him under the oak, Penda hissed with her increasing labor pains. “I’m glad you are here, my Starfall.” She reached out to hold him, then winced. “But I do want this to be over!”
Xar, calm now that the huge dragon had disappeared, fluttered to a lower branch above Penda. He bobbed his head and looked down at her as if ready to comment on the birth.
“It is not a quick process,” said Hale. “Cra, a baby doesn’t just pop out!” He flashed his gold tooth, but he was too worried for it to be a smile. “I have seen it before.”
Adan stroked his wife’s dark hair, then looked around the camp, distraught. “I am not a midwife, and I am not trained in this. I don’t want to leave anything to chance.” He rose and turned to Hale. “Stay here with her. I’ll find some of the Utauk women. They’ve been through many birthings.”
Hale agreed. “Even Shella din Orr will do, if you can’t find anyone else.”
“Hurry back,” Penda said.
Adan did not want to leave her side, but he needed help with the birth. Carrying his drawn shadowglass sword, he sprinted out of the trees into the shambles of torn tents and overturned wagons.
Adan came upon a crushed auga, its large mouth open, black tongue lolling to the side. Another injured beast twitched its head back and forth, but its spine was broken, its slitted eyes were glazed with agony. He stood over the creature, seeing its pain, and remembered when brutal Quo had commanded one of the augas to batter itself to death against the gates of Bannriya. Feeling no hatred toward the two-legged mount, Adan thrust his sword beneath its chin and up into its brain. The auga gurgled and slumped in death, as if in relief.
Then he found the wreth corpses. Several of the golden-skinned warriors lay with broken spears and shattered swords. The bodies were mangled and red. Other wreths lay wounded and moaning. The entire attacking party had been defeated, their weapons and magic insufficient against the dragon.
As he hurried through the camp, looking for someone to tend to Penda, Adan stared at the fallen warriors. The sandwreths had been arrogant and seemingly invincible, but this massacre put the lie to their confidence. If that dragon had been merely a fragment of Ossus, then what was the huge dragon himself like? How large and powerful were the sins and dark thoughts of a god? He gazed down at the dead mage, sprawled with her arms and legs twisted at the wrong angles. “What folly!”
A pair of bearded Utauk men came up to him. “King Adan, we are glad you survived. Thank you for your assistance.”
He recognized Shella’s two nephews. “And your grandmother?”
“She lives. We will set up a temporary lean-to for her,” Emil said.
“She says she has been through worse,” Burdon added. “Cra, I don’t want to know about it.”
Adan pushed aside other worries. “I need a midwife. Penda is about to give birth. She shouldn’t do it alone.” He looked back over his shoulder. “I need to be there.”
The nephews consulted with each other. “We will find someone. Don’t worry.”
They split apart and began working their way through the camp, shouting. As the one point of urgency faded a little, Adan looked around, hoping to find his young squire or the two Banner guards. “Hom!” he called. “Captain Elcior!”
Adan heard a muttered curse of pain, and a wreth noble clawed his way out of a collapsed Utauk tent. Adan recognized Quo with his gold and ivory hair, jewels and bangles. Severely injured, Queen Voo’s brother struggled to get to his feet. He winced in pain, groaned, and fell back to the ground, pressing his hand against a deep gash across his torso. Adan stepped closer to the gravely wounded sandwreth.
Seeing him, Quo let out a sharp laugh. “Ah, Adan Starfall! You have joined us in another dragon hunt.” He coughed, spat out a bubble of blood that formed between his lips. “This one was not quite so enjoyable.” His side had been torn open, his ribs shattered. For any human it would have been a mortal wound, but the wreth held on, using his magic to keep himself alive.
Unlike the dying auga he had dispatched, this wretched man evoked no sympathy from Adan. “How did you know to come here? Were you hunting the dragon?”
“That was merely a fortunate coincidence.” Quo coughed in an attempt to laugh, and more blood came out of his mouth. Annoyed, he wiped it away with his other hand. “My sister sent us to track down Penda Orr. You thought you could hide her from us, but Voo wants her.” He tried to prop himself up. “Is the baby born yet?”
Adan glowered. “You cannot have my wife or child.”
“It is not for you to decide.” The wreth’s eyes narrowed. “It is unwise to stand in the way of what my sister wants.”
Adan felt a deep chill. Penda and her father had hidden among the Utauk tribes, but Quo and his wreth party had found her somehow, tracked her to this isolated heart camp. No doubt Queen Voo would keep hunting. With a sick hollow in his heart, Adan realized he could not keep his wife safe from the sandwreths. He also remembered the most recent mothe
rtear images from Glik’s ska: Quo was himself involved with the vile work camp and the enslaved humans.
The sandwreths pretended to be allies, but Adan knew they were just as evil as their rivals to the north. Worse, they were coming after Penda and the baby, and Adan could not abide that.
Struggling to push himself upright, Quo spoke in an annoyed voice. “Help me, human. I can tend to my own wounds. If there is a place for me to concentrate and enter a brief spellsleep, I will be healed.”
Adan stared down at him, worked his jaw.
The wreth’s topaz eyes bored into him with imperious command. “As soon as I am well, I will escort your wife and child to Voo. You cannot stop it.” He tried to chuckle.
When Adan refused to respond, he saw the noble’s expression change to uncertainty, then fear. Adan held his shadowglass-inlaid sword, the weapon Queen Voo had helped him to create. She claimed that the substance would help human weapons fight the frostwreths.
And sandwreths, too.
“You will not have Penda, or my baby. I can stop you.” He leaned down and whispered, “I know about the labor camps you hide in the desert. The human prisoners you have taken.” As the wreth’s eyes widened in surprise, Adan straightened. “Someday, legends might say that you died fighting a dragon … or maybe no one will remember you at all.”
He thrust the point of his sword into Quo’s chest, feeling the sharp steel and the thrumming shadowglass.
The wreth man struggled, raised his hands, but Adan shoved the blade all the way through his twisted heart, pinning him to the ground. Quo convulsed, grappled, and then died.
Adan could not allow himself to regret his actions. “Humans are not your slaves or your servants. We don’t belong to anyone but ourselves.”
Two horses approached, and Adan saw Seenan and Captain Elcior, with Hom stumbling behind them. The squire looked distraught, his clothes streaked with blood and dirt. All three had witnessed what their king just did.
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