Vengewar

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Looking at them, then scanning the wreckage of the camp, Adan reached a snap decision. “Most of Quo’s party were killed by the dragon. Find any other sandwreths who are wounded.” He inhaled deeply. “You know what to do.”

  The two Banner guards looked at each other with hardened expressions, but Hom didn’t understand. “Shouldn’t we help them?”

  “No. They cannot be allowed to leave. They came to take Queen Penda and our child!”

  Captain Elcior raised his own sword. The dark shadowglass glinted in the starlight. “We will find any that still live. No sandwreth will survive this night.”

  Shella’s nephews came running up to Adan. “We sent two midwives to Penda, and they say all is well. She will be fine.” Their gazes went to the body of Quo, and then to Adan and his bloody sword.

  The king straightened. “We can leave no wreths alive tonight. No witnesses. Quo and his party did not come here to fight the dragon—they came to steal Queen Penda.”

  “Wreths are not to be trusted,” Emil agreed, scratching his thick beard. “Not sandwreths, not frostwreths. Mother Orr says that over and over.” The two men reached a decision. “They were never here. We will dispose of them, remove all trace.”

  Adan thanked the two men, then ran back to help his wife.

  100

  WITH Lord Cade’s scattered army on the run, the Norterran defenders galloped after them and rounded up prisoners. Although most of the soldiers surrendered, a few escaped, and Kollanan grimly accepted the fact that eventually word would get back to Convera.

  For the time being, the king remained at Bahlen’s wreth city, glad that the defenses had held against the main assault. The Yanton villagers emerged from the shelters, terrified but alive. They had so many questions that their king could not answer, devastated to know that soldiers under the Commonwealth banner had tried to kill them. Koll sent a contingent of his reinforcements to ride to the damaged town, leading the people in an urgent effort to see what they could salvage. It would take a long time to put out the fires.

  While the survivors tended the wounded and counted the dead, Koll took counsel with his Bravas. Together, they grappled with the idea that Konag Mandan had now declared himself their enemy. Koll regretted every single soldier he had killed this night, but there had been no way around it.

  Elliel said, “We requested help from him, and this is how he responds!”

  Lasis shook his head. “I am not familiar with the deep politics of the three kingdoms, Sire, but I cannot fathom why the konag—our konag!—would send an army against us.”

  “Even as a prince, Mandan was weak and petulant. He lived under his mother’s wing,” Koll said, looking down at his bloody war hammer. “After she died, he was never right again.”

  Elliel looked pale, exhausted from fighting, from her confrontation with Cade, and from what she had realized. Her voice was dark and low. “This was Utho’s doing, Sire. Mandan is just a puppet.”

  Bahlen approached. “What did my town do to deserve this? Why did the konag choose Yanton? Why would he order those soldiers to burn homesteads and harm so many innocent people? We were supposed to be protecting against wreths!”

  “He was sending a message.” Kollanan ground his teeth together. “And I will send one back to him.” He looked at the bodies strewn on the battlefield, then turned back to the three Bravas. “You made the right decision, Gant. I believe in Brava honor. I beg you to hold to it.”

  The rough-featured man clipped the ramer band to his belt and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. “For centuries, my race held on to hatred against the Isharans, always planning for a vengewar. The anticipation of revenge became its own reward. Yes, the Isharans hurt us long ago … but many generations before that, the wreths took advantage of our ancestors. We are half-breeds because they ravished our mothers, bred with our fathers. No Brava child was conceived out of love, but of assault.”

  Elliel said, “We owe the wreths nothing. Even Utho knows that.”

  Kollanan felt the heavy responsibility of leadership. As king, he had rallied his counties, his vassal lords, enlisting anyone willing to be trained as soldiers. Many loyal veterans had settled in Norterra after the end of the last Isharan war, and he had called them all to arms. It had been easy to convince them to fight against the evil wreths.

  But now he had to fight a war on two fronts, two separate enemies—one of them entirely unnecessary. Looking at the dead from both sides on the battlefield, Kollanan considered how these Osterran soldiers had marched across the land for the sole purpose of attacking a harmless village. Why would Mandan pursue this useless conflict, when all energy should have been directed against the wreths? Why did he refuse to see the danger?

  Would he now have to split his Norterran army and send troops to the border with Osterra? He needed all of his fighters to defend against a frostwreth retaliation, but he could not ignore this unprovoked attack from Konag Mandan. He doubted anything good would come of this.

  How he wished Tafira were here to counsel and comfort him. She was always his wisest sounding board. He hoped she had kept Fellstaff safe. The city was in good hands.

  He scanned the bodies, saw dead soldiers bearing the mountain symbol of Norterra, while others displayed the open hand of the Commonwealth. Bahlen looked disgusted. “When we gather the dead, I want to separate my fighters from … those men. Shall we burn the traitors? Bury them in unmarked graves.”

  Koll felt the heat of anger in his face. “Ancestors’ blood, I will not continue the mistake, the stupidity! These soldiers followed orders, but they were evil orders.”

  “And Cade was an evil man,” Elliel said.

  Koll nodded. “Mandan may have broken the Commonwealth charter, but I will not. I still believe in the three kingdoms. Treat their fallen with respect. Each soldier likely carries a journal or some sort of identification. Our legaciers will write down the name of every person who died here—on either side—and try to preserve their legacies.” The thought made him glance up. “Where is Shadri? Didn’t the scholar girl come with you? And Thon. Where is he?”

  “They were exploring the northern part of the city.” A look of deep concern crossed Elliel’s face. “I will go find them.” She snatched the reins of the nearest mount and galloped off.

  * * *

  Elliel rode into the ruins, recalling that her friends had gone to investigate the mysterious sinkhole. She shouted their names, and let out a bright gasp of relief to find them both alive.

  Thon waved at her. “Elliel, my love! Is the enemy defeated? Did you take care of them?”

  “I had help.” As she approached, the horse snorted, oddly reluctant to approach Thon, but she pushed forward. She looked past him, seeing the blood that covered his silver chestpiece and leggings, all the mangled bodies scattered around the abandoned plaza. “Cade’s soldiers broke through? You fought them?”

  “Only a few dozen, but I…” He shrugged and looked away with his deep blue eyes. “I do not remember exactly what happened.”

  Shadri was quieter than usual, obviously troubled. She wiped at her face, but could not smear away her confused expression.

  When Elliel swung down from her restless horse and Thon wrapped his arms around her, she smelled an unusual musk about him, something dry and utterly unfamiliar, unlike perspiration or blood or dust.

  He seemed in a daze. “I felt anger emanating from these ruins, and I also discovered an unexpected power inside me.” He pulled away from her, as if her touch made him uncomfortable. “I felt real strength, and I felt you, Elliel.” He offered her an uncertain smile. “I sensed your rage—and it made me stronger.”

  The Brava woman stared at the gleefully splashed blood, the mangled victims. “Those are not sword wounds. What happened?”

  “There was a monster,” Shadri blurted out. “It was dark in my hiding place, and I found the sculpture of a dragon carved out of shadowglass, and it gave off a kind of … angry power. It resonated everywhe
re. I caught a glimpse of scales and teeth, claws.” She glanced back at the torn bodies, nauseated. “I wish I knew what it was, but I’m afraid to know.”

  Thon withdrew, looking uncertain. “Something came out of me … I think. I did not see.” He spread his fingers, clenched them into fists, and opened them again.

  “The thing was huge,” Shadri said. “All dark, with blazing eyes.”

  “A dragon?” Elliel was prepared to laugh, but she saw that Shadri was entirely serious.

  “Or something like a dragon. It was huge and shifting.” Shadri looked at Thon, and he glanced away, as if in shame.

  Elliel couldn’t understand what the scholar girl was saying. Thon kept looking helplessly at his hands.

  Shadri finally said, “We don’t know what Thon is, do we? He was buried beneath the mountains, and we even thought that he was like the legends of Kur himself. Gone to hide.” She swallowed hard.

  Thon seemed to be wrestling with his own thoughts. “I do not remember.”

  Shadri looked at Elliel. “Thon doesn’t know anything about his origin. He was sealed away from the wreth wars. You found him inside Mount Vada. What if he was somehow … contaminated by the dragon?”

  Elliel dreaded what the scholar girl was about to say.

  Shadri often spouted questions, facts, or any random idea that occurred to her. Now, though, her words were ponderous, as if she was afraid to voice her thoughts. “Another explanation fits, though, doesn’t it? We know what else is buried beneath the Dragonspine Mountains, something powerful.” She blinked. Thon regarded her without arguing, not trying to stop her. He seemed resigned to the possibility.

  Shadri said, “What if Thon himself is Ossus?”

  101

  KORU’S frostwreth warriors had defeated the stunted dragon, but the effort required all of their magic and weapons. Weeks ago, her war party had set off from the frozen north, confident and determined, ready to face Ossus, their destiny. And a small, crippled dragon had nearly destroyed them. Koru had failed. All of her warriors and mages had failed.

  One more warrior died on the second day of their trek home. He coughed blood during the entire ride, spitting scarlet down the white fur of his mount. All their wreth magic and innate healing powers had been insufficient against his injuries, and finally he slid off onto the frozen ground and died.

  Koru called a halt. The rest of the war party piled rocks and ice around the body, then Mage Elon called up a searing blue fire that reduced the body to white ash. Their mood was subdued, but Koru did not let it linger. They moved on.

  How were the wreths supposed to destroy the great Ossus, as Kur commanded, if the two races squandered their strength fighting one another? Queen Onn did not grasp the magnitude of the challenge. As the battered survivors rode their limping oonuks back north, Koru felt anger. “My mother is a fool,” she said aloud.

  One of her warriors touched the crusted wound in his side and muttered sourly. Koru couldn’t tell if he agreed with her or felt obligated to defend the queen’s honor.

  “We have seen real dragons now,” Koru continued, “yet my mother considers them a problem to be dealt with in the future while she obsesses about the sandwreths. Are they our real enemy?” She growled deep in her throat and tossed her long hair. “Even if sandwreths and frostwreths join forces, will we be strong enough to kill Ossus?”

  The wolf-steeds trudged along on bloodied paws. When they reached the snows again, the animals moved with an added burst of energy, but it faded quickly. Now they seemed exhausted and in pain.

  They rode for days, traveling north, to where the frigid air felt bracing, refreshing. The scour of ice crystals numbed her cheeks. When Koru at last saw the ice towers in the distance, she realized that the gigantic palace was just another symbol of Queen Onn’s arrogance.

  She dug her fingers into her oonuk’s thick pelt. The beast panted heavily, as if its lungs had been seared. Koru needed to have words with her mother.

  * * *

  Birch sat beside the throne again, hiding his real plans. Onn ignored him as always, but insisted that he remain nearby. She would glance at the boy, reassure herself that he was there, that he adored her, and then pay him no further mind.

  Birch had become skilled at hiding his emotions, maintaining a docile mask. In hidden places within the palace, he looked at his reflection in polished ice to remind himself of who he was. He would run his fingers through his ragged brown hair, remembering how his mother had hummed nonsense songs as she clipped his locks. Now his hair was long and shaggy, and Birch didn’t like it. He knew his mother would not cut his hair, not ever again.

  In the mirror he would observe how the anger and sadness showed in his expressions, and he practiced smoothing his cheeks, keeping his mouth in a straight line, so that nothing showed in his eyes. He did not want Onn to guess that he hated her with all his being.

  Birch sat silent and well behaved on the throne dais. He was cold because the air was cold, the floor was cold, the walls were cold. There was no escaping it here in the palace. He had his blanket, and he still had the carved wooden pig that his grandfather had made for him, which he kept well hidden, like a talisman. He was amazed that Onn had not taken the keepsake from him.

  The drones had served food earlier and retreated, leaving him alone with the queen as she mused. He had listened to Onn discuss strategy and make war plans. Her lover Irri had gone off to hunt a few token humans in Norterra, but she planned a more complete strike against those who had offended her. Frostwreth armies would wreck Fellstaff, turn the castle to rubble, tear down the walls around the city. She seemed unaware that Birch was listening.

  He could never forget how she had blithely massacred so many innocent drones, his friends, as she vented her rage when she’d learned of the Lake Bakal attack. The drones took care of him, considered him special. He had started teaching them, and many now possessed hidden weapons, although the drones didn’t know what to do with them—or were unwilling to try. Birch remembered playing pretend battles with his brother and their friends in the village, and he remembered listening to his grandfather tell stories of the Isharan war.

  Irri marched pompously into the throne room. He had pulled back his hair and tied it behind his shoulders. He lifted his chin and announced, “I have good news to report, my queen.” His bare arms and armor bore dark specks of dried blood.

  Onn rose from her throne, noting the red smears. “You do not bother to bathe before presenting yourself to your queen?”

  “I thought you might find the smell of human blood enticing, that it might drive you to greater lust.”

  She laughed. “That is all you think about, Irri!”

  Stealthily, Birch retreated to the back of the dais, taking shelter. He managed to slip behind the frozen throne.

  Intent on the queen, Irri paid the boy no attention. “I missed you.”

  Onn sniffed. “Tell me about your victory, and then I will decide how much I missed you.”

  He squared his shoulders and delivered his report. “You dispatched me to ride south, find human victims, and punish them.”

  “As a start. We will do much more, but I was impatient.” Her voice had a flirtatious lilt. “Show me what you accomplished.”

  Irri produced an ice sphere, a transparent globe that gleamed and flickered, full of images. Holding it in his palm, he projected the images in the air. “We found a party of their soldiers camped in the forest and killed them all.” Turning the sphere, he displayed slain humans in blue Commonwealth jerkins now soaked in blood. “We believe they were some of the soldiers who attacked our fortress at Lake Bakal.”

  “Good,” Queen Onn said. “You are making me more glad to see you.”

  Irri rotated the ice sphere and showed another image—a woman tied to a tree, a bound hostage. “This one was with them. She said she was their queen.”

  Birch leaned forward, eyes wide as he recognized his grandmother Tafira. He didn’t know why she was bound with
ropes, why the soldiers had taken her. In the image, Irri used a frozen blade to slash his grandmother’s throat. She bled out quickly and died without a word.

  In shock and horror, the boy jerked back, his shoulders striking the ice wall. He clamped his lips together, trying to keep his teeth from chattering.

  Irri dissolved the images and pocketed the ice sphere. Onn clasped her hands together. “You have pleased me with this, and I expect you to please me further—after you bathe.”

  Covering his grin, the warrior bowed and departed.

  Birch was sickened and silent, despite the roaring anger inside his head. He squeezed the carved pig in his pocket until his hand ached. He could not let the frostwreths keep hurting him and the people he loved! They had killed so many already, and he needed to do something.

  He thought of his grandfather Kollanan, his war stories, his legacy. He remembered his doting grandmother, how she let the boys help in the castle kitchens, peeling and chopping turmeric roots until their fingers were yellow. He thought of fishing with Tomko at the end of the dock on Lake Bakal.

  Birch was just a boy, but he would be a warrior someday. King Kollanan had promised that. He was brave, and he knew it. He had proved as much just by surviving.

  No other human could get so close to the frostwreth queen. No other human would have such a chance.

  Onn stood facing away from him, paying no attention to her human pet. She obviously relished the murderous images Irri had just shown her.

  Birch felt the secret knife he hid in his waistband. As he fingered the rough hilt, though, he realized that the blade was just too small—sharp, but short and stubby. It would never kill a powerful frostwreth queen. He needed something deadlier.

  Birch didn’t think. He reached up, silent as glass, and removed the broken spear from the wall. The weapon was heavy, and the shaft felt cold in his hands, but the long point was sharp, still stained with the blood of Ossus. It was a good weapon.