Vengewar

by Kevin J. Anderson

  He had fought the frostwreths. He had faced Isharans in the old war, and he knew what they done to Conndur on Fulcor Island. But as he looked at his murdered wife, he decided the real monsters were his own people. “They did this!”

  Thon crouched in front of the slaughtered Commonwealth soldiers. “But who did this?”

  A scout said, “They were all dead when we found the camp. Even their horses were torn apart.”

  Wary, Elliel turned in a slow circle, watching for some terrible force that might emerge from the dark silver pines that surrounded them.

  Thon touched the gashes in the dead soldiers, cuts in their armor. He bent closer, narrowing his deep sapphire eyes, and sniffed the air. He went over to crouch beside Captain Rondo, who had a mortal wound in his chest where a spear point had plunged through his heart. Thon snapped back to his feet in a liquid motion. “These wounds are from wreths. A wreth hunting party murdered everyone here.” He nodded toward Tafira. “Including the queen.”

  Kollanan cut the ropes and slid his wife’s body to the ground as gently as possible. He felt dead inside while at the same time his mind blazed and shouted in denial. “Or Captain Rondo murdered her first, and then wreths killed the entire party. Why else would she have been tied like that?”

  Thon shrugged. “There is no way to be certain.”

  “Even if the frostwreths killed her, she was only here because of them.” Koll glared at the dead escort soldiers. Tears ran down his cheeks and into his beard. He felt hollow, but he would find the steel inside that emptiness, the hammer. The king of Norterra had enemies all around.

  “They did this,” he said one more time, meaning anyone and everyone who dared to stand against him.

  104

  UTHO had a secret that ran as deep as rot within his bones, and Onzu knew it.

  All Bravas were connected by a common thread, a bond of blood, and only under extreme circumstances could they be extricated from that community. His son Onder had been one of those purged of his memory, cast out from all Bravas. As had Elliel because of the unspeakable crime she had supposedly committed.

  Unless Utho had lied. Unless he had concocted a scheme that ruined the warrior woman’s life and legacy for “the good of the Commonwealth.”

  Onzu feared that perhaps the legendary Brava, advisor to the konag himself, might have tainted their united half-breed community with his dishonorable actions. The training master had to know. His own loyalty was in question, and his actions would be—must be—predicated on the truth.

  As deep night fell across the training village like a smothering shroud, all the young wards had bedded down to rest for an early morning of combat exercises, and Onzu walked along the darkened paths between dwellings. He carried a lantern, although he could have walked every inch of the village wearing a blindfold.

  The visitors’ hut remained untouched since Utho had spent the night. The Brava man had left early that morning after a cold and uncomfortable conversation with his veteran trainer. Onzu had convinced him to ride into the mountains and look for the truth of the stirring dragon. He had hoped the other Brava would reach an epiphany, but alas, Utho had not returned. From the reports of Tytan and Jennae, it seemed the vengewar was still Utho’s obsession, to the exclusion of all else. That was when Onzu had determined they were on fundamentally separate paths.

  A disagreement was one thing. A lie—for whatever purpose or justification—was another. The contents of King Kollanan’s alarming letter disturbed him deeply. Onzu needed to know what Utho had done with Elliel, whether that deception warranted cutting ties with him completely.

  He opened the door of the hut, shone the lantern on a sleeping pallet. No one had touched the pillow or the thin woolen blanket since Utho had left. The bed was neat, blanket straightened. Onzu entered, shining the pool of yellow-orange light and looking for any telltale remnants that Utho might have left behind.

  Though no one else was awake, the old trainer crept like a thief as he approached the pallet and studied the bedding, the stuffed pillow, the blanket. He narrowed his gaze and leaned forward.

  There, a steel-gray hair, a single strand caught on the woven fabric.

  With nimble fingers that had killed many men, Onzu plucked the hair and brought it close to his eye. Yes, this would be enough, but the rest of the magic would require more than lantern light. It needed pure fire, fire fueled by blood.

  Outside, listening to the muted sounds of forest creatures and the conspiratorial whisper of breezes through the pine boughs, Onzu sat on a stripped log that served as a bench beside the carving of the ancient Brava leader. He placed the single gray strand on the smooth wood where he himself would often sit in contemplation.

  Onzu set the lantern on the ground and removed the ramer cuff. As a training master, he rarely used the magical weapon. It was not a toy, and he did not show off for the young men and women who learned their fighting skills here. A ramer was meant only as a last resort, a weapon for the most dire battles.

  This was a different kind of battle.

  Now he clamped the cuff tight, and the pain of the golden fangs was like a sharp sigh of relief. Dark blood ran down his forearm, and he pushed with his magic, calling forth the flames that burst around the metal band, then engulfed his hand.

  Bright fire, innocent flames.

  Each Brava carried his past and his truth within him. They were half-breeds, wreth magic intertwined with human honor and decency. Every fiber of a Brava’s being reflected the choices he made and the deeds he did. Given a master with a strong enough command of his own innate magic, those echoes of deeds could be peeled away and revealed like the rings in the trunk of a tree.

  For decades, Onzu had carefully shaved his head, keeping his scalp clean. If he let his hair grow back, the strands would be pure and white. Although he had made bad choices in his past, Onzu had no regrets, no shadows that lingered behind his heart.

  Utho had left this gray strand behind.

  He raised his flaming hand and pinched Utho’s hair between two fingers. Inside the thin strand, Onzu could recall the memories and see what resided within the man he had considered to be his greatest student.

  As the strand touched the purifying fire, a tiny puff of smoke curled up, then expanded into a panoply of images. Concentrating hard, Onzu pulled and guided the images. With dismay, he saw Utho fighting a horrendous godling in a seaside village. Mirrabay. Another Brava paladin fought beside him, a young man—Onder! And Onder fled in terror, leaving Utho alone to face the wild, destructive deity. Just as the story said.…

  The old Brava master swallowed. It was the truth he had feared, and his eyes were blurred as he saw the next set of images of Utho and other Bravas gathered in a dark remembrance shrine, including Jennae. Together, they marked Onder with the rune of forgetting on his face, then turned him loose with no memories, only shame.…

  Though heartbroken to see the confirmation of his son’s cowardice, Onzu had a different purpose. He wanted to see what Utho remembered of Elliel, whether or not she was guilty of the vicious massacre of which she had been convicted. Was Utho’s account true, or should Onzu believe the letter that King Kollanan had sent to Convera?

  The ramer fire blazed brighter, and the strand of hair gave up its secrets.

  Before long, the training master saw the truth—Elliel lying on the edge of death, stabbed by Lord Cade’s viciously jealous wife … after Cade himself had raped Elliel. Utho and Cade had crafted a false story in order to maintain the dark political stability of the Isharan prisoner camps.

  Poor Elliel had paid the price. Utho had made the Brava woman believe she’d committed a monstrous, despicable crime.

  The hair continued to burn, continued to bring forth images, but Onzu was so angry he could barely see them. The sheen of tears in his eyes formed a film of rage. The ramer’s heat strengthened him.

  Sitting on the log, he saw out of the corner of his eye that several young trainees had emerged from their homes. N
ow they watched wide-eyed as their master called up images from his blood.

  But Utho’s dark memories were not done yet. As the hair strand burned down to the root, the deepest, blackest visions appeared, a bottomless cavern of secrets that the man had never wanted anyone to know.

  Images flickered in the smoke and fire, revealing Konag Conndur in stone-walled private chambers … on Fulcor Island. Onzu knew where it was and what was happening, because as he saw and inhaled the smoke of memories, they became his own.

  Utho came to the old konag secretly in the night and bolted the door with a terrible purpose. Locking himself inside with Conndur, his friend, his konag. Konag Conndur had invited Empra Iluris to the isolated island garrison, wanting to forge peace between the two continents because he, Conndur, believed the wreths were a far greater threat to the human race than the old feud with Ishara.

  But Utho was blinded by his own purpose. He saw the world and the future only through a red rage of hatred for Isharans, the need for the vengewar and what he thought was the good of the Commonwealth.

  In revealed memories, Onzu watched as Utho methodically and savagely murdered Konag Conndur.

  Utho.

  Mutilating him, spraying the blood everywhere.

  Utho.

  Blaming it on the Isharans in order to provoke a war.

  Utho! Utho! Utho!

  The hair was gone, but the damned memories remained. The ramer fire continued to burn bright in his hand, and Onzu surged to his feet. The stinging blur over his eyes vanished.

  He saw his young trainees staring at him. They had seen, too.

  He extinguished the ramer fire, shaking and drained, but also energized. This was not finished.

  Master Onzu knew what he had to do.

  105

  MANDAN of the Colors was painting again, and that disturbed Utho.

  After the young konag learned of Cade’s disgraceful defeat in Norterra, his reaction seemed displaced and worrisome. “I am the one who writes the legacy of my Commonwealth! As konag, I make the history that anyone will remember.” He looked at his canvas and gave a defiant nod.

  Utho spoke in a guarded tone. “That does not alter what happened, Sire.”

  Mandan sniffed. “I will change it in my painting, and then I count on you to make it true.” He dabbed the brush into his pigments, swirling the colors together. “You are my bonded Brava.”

  His new project was too large for a simple easel in his quarters. Instead, he had erected a large canvas in the open throne room. When army commanders, court advisors, vassal lords, and ministers of state came to deliver their reports or request funds from the treasury, Mandan was there painting.

  Previously, he had at least pretended to make decisions and issue important commands, after consulting with Utho. Now, the konag had abdicated that responsibility and only made offhanded comments. Nevertheless, his mind was fixated on the battle at the old wreth ruins. He painted the bloody spectacle of what he envisioned should have happened there. It had very little bearing on what had actually occurred, as Utho now knew.

  Defeated stragglers had trickled in from Norterra, weary members of Cade’s army, who could tell only small parts of the story. They had fled when the battle turned, having seen King Kollanan’s arrival with unexpected reinforcements. Finally, when two line commanders reached Convera, they described the complete rout, how Bahlen’s people had put up a remarkable resistance in the fortified wreth ruins and how the Fellstaff forces had turned the tides of battle and scattered Cade’s army.

  Mandan was sickened by the failure, outraged at the king of Norterra. He railed against the fool Cade for being such a disappointment. Unable to control himself, he struck his new wife. Lira bawled with grief over the death of her father, and Mandan slapped her across the face again. When she shrank away sobbing, he slapped her a third time, and when she collapsed on the floor, he kicked her. He would have continued to do so, but Utho pulled him away. Lira curled into a ball, wailing.

  “Your father failed me,” Mandan yelled at her. “He had a vital task, and now my uncle thinks Norterra can ignore the konag’s commands.”

  Lira whimpered, not hearing his words.

  The wheels continued to turn in Utho’s mind. This loss was far more disastrous than a mere personal affront to Mandan. Cade’s standing army was one of the most powerful military forces in the Commonwealth, and Utho needed it for his vengewar. Now all those soldiers were either killed or defeated, the survivors dispersed across Norterra.

  “What of Lord Cade’s Brava?” Utho demanded of the returning soldiers. “Why did Gant not protect his bonded lord?”

  The first soldiers did not know the answer, but by the second day, a wounded cavalry soldier reported that he had seen Cade killed by a Brava woman, and Utho knew that it must be Elliel. A chill went down his spine.

  “Cade’s own Brava let it happen,” said the rider, shaking his head. “Gant just stood there and watched while Elliel cut down his lord. I think he threw in his lot with King Kollanan afterward.”

  Utho could not believe what he heard, but too many things were incomprehensible right now. He squeezed his fist as if he could ignite deadly flames even without his ramer. “We need every fighter for our war against Ishara, every Brava! Our navy is growing. Our soldiers are being trained. Our smithies are manufacturing thousands of swords.”

  A mass of frenetic energy, Mandan snapped, “We cannot let this defiance stand. Our gathered armies must march on Norterra!” His gaze suddenly shifted. “And what of my brother Adan? Which side will he take? We need to secure Suderra as well, before it’s too late!” His pinched face grew stormy. “Is Adan in league with Kollanan against me?”

  Utho lashed out at him. “If the Commonwealth is engaged in a civil war, then our enemies will thrive and plot against us. We must fight now, set sail and attack Ishara while they are leaderless! An Utauk trading ship just returned from there and reported that their godlings are on a rampage. Serepol is nearly destroyed and Empra Iluris has vanished. Now is our chance, during this turmoil!”

  Curled in a corner of the throne room, her back pressed against the cold stone wall, Lira continued weeping.

  * * *

  Over the next several days, Utho made cold, rational plans for his war, while the young konag withdrew into his paints and colors. He sketched figures on the enormous canvas, using charcoal sticks to draw the combatants in a broad scene of chaos and carnage. This was how Mandan envisioned the events in his mind, even though he himself had never been to war except for the naval skirmish on Fulcor Island.

  “There, the battle in Norterra.” Mandan stepped back to admire his painting. “This is how the legacy will be written.”

  His depicted battle scene was filled with blood, bodies hacked to pieces, dead soldiers strewn about the ground, their faces twisted in agony. Every fallen soldier in the painting bore the colors of Norterra. In his version of the event, not a single brave Commonwealth fighter had fallen. More disturbingly, the central figure in the artwork was a rearing stallion ridden by a victorious warrior, whose upraised sword dripped the blood of vanquished enemies. Mandan.

  The konag had painted himself in the middle of the fight, a proud and powerful commander leading his troops to crush the upstart traitors in Norterra. Now, Mandan’s satisfaction rolled off of him in waves.

  Deeply troubled, Utho stared at the painting and came to a reluctant decision. So long as the konag was under his control, he could manage the plans for the vengewar. “I am your bonded Brava, my konag, and that will be your legacy—as you command. We can display this mural proudly in the throne room. We should call your vassal lords to come see it.”

  “They will admire my work,” Mandan said. “And we will make them tell the story when they return to their holdings.” He dipped his brush onto the palette, swirled the rich crimson, and painted more red around the fallen bodies on the imaginary battlefield. “It inspired me.”

  Utho made sure the young man kept
his priorities, though. “We must bring the Commonwealth back together, unite all three kingdoms against the Isharan animals. Together, we can conquer the new world.”

  “We deal with King Kollanan.” Mandan sounded like a petulant child insisting on his dessert. “My uncle first!”

  Utho’s head throbbed, and his heart ached. He didn’t wish to engage in outright war in the three kingdoms because that would cost so many Osterran and Norterran fighters—and he needed the whole army against Ishara. He could see that Mandan would not be swayed, so he suggested an alternative. “In order to unify the Commonwealth, we have to remove Kollanan. And quite probably your brother Adan as well. All three kingdoms must be ruled by leaders who are loyal to the konag.”

  Sitting on a stone bench against the far wall, as if she avoided the throne dais and the empty chair reserved for the queen, Lira sat dull eyed, a wisp of herself. She had changed so much since Mandan had first met the lovely but fragile girl in Cade’s holding house. And the young man already seemed tired of his bride after only a week.

  Lira sat on the stone bench, her skin as pale as milk, her long red hair limp and tangled, as if she hadn’t brushed it in several days. She didn’t weep any more, but simply stared. Her shoulders slumped as if the spark had been snuffed out of her.

  She raised a goblet to her lips and drank. Utho knew she was consuming the milk of the blue poppy, more and more each day. So like Lady Maire …

  “I ride for Rivermouth this afternoon, my konag,” Utho announced. “I need to inspect the ships. New Bravas are coming in to join our army, and they will throw their swords and ramers to our cause.”

  Mandan spoke up, quoting: “A vengewar is not a quick thing, but it is necessary.”

  Utho was pleased that the young konag remembered. “Exactly, Sire. Soon enough, the real battles will begin.”

  Mandan of the Colors went back to his painting.

  106

  WHEN King Adan held his newborn daughter, his heart felt as if it would burst with love. Utauk midwives had tended Penda through the birth, smiling and conferring with one another, while she squeezed his hand until he thought she would crush his bones. She sweated and cried out with the effort.