Vaelin had been angered to discover Dahrena had flown once more in his absence, returning to the camp to find her slumped next to the fire with Cara and Kiral pressed close on either side. “No more of this,” he said, sinking to his haunches before her, smoothing a hand over her ice-chilled brow. “Even if I have to drug you unconscious.”
“Oh don’t grumble,” she murmured with a smile, lips pale and eyes dim with fatigue. “I think I may have found some allies.”
“Did any see you?” Vaelin asked Lorkan.
“A little boy started pointing and screaming when I tried to go farther in. Assuming he was gifted, he was the only one amongst them.”
“We should go alone,” Erlin said. “A large party will arouse too much fear.”
“Fear can be useful.” Vaelin turned to Astorek. “Tell your father to bring the full host to this valley.”
He waited until midday then guided Scar towards the mountain at a walk, coming to a halt at its base. He gazed up at the jagged scar in its side, now revealed as a cave mouth, dark and silent, not even a tendril of smoke emerging to betray its occupants, though he had little doubt they had seen his approach.
He relaxed his grip on Scar’s reins, allowing him to nibble on the sparse grass of the valley floor, eyes fixed on the cave mouth. He had no real certainty of achieving his aim. Pertak had laughed when Erlin related Vaelin’s request for an alliance. The Lathera chieftain had a fresh scar on his jawline and a newly dug grave had appeared outside the walls of his settlement. He kept one hand close to the pouch on his belt and moved with the hunched, narrowed-eyed pose of a man in constant fear of attack. His laughter though, was entirely genuine.
“Let the southern goat-fuckers die,” Erlin translated as Pertak stomped back to the settlement, still chuckling. “Then their seams will be ours to mine.”
The first of them appeared after a wait of several moments, a single kilted figure standing at the cave mouth, staring down at Vaelin with axe in hand. Vaelin raised both arms, showing his hands to be empty. Several more figures resolved out of the blackness of the cave, growing in number until perhaps six hundred people stood regarding him in silence. Vaelin lowered his arms and waited, hearing the growing tumult raised by the approach of the Wolf People. The spear-hawks came first, calling out their pealing cries as they glided into the valley and wheeled above, then the wolves, several packs numbering well over a hundred individuals. They loped forward to surround Vaelin, drawing an involuntary shudder from Scar.
Vaelin peered at the face of the first figure to appear as the Wolf People marched into the valley. He was too distant to fully make out his features, but Vaelin judged him to be the oldest tribesman present, possibly a chieftain. However, judging from the mismatched symbols and colours adorning the clothing of his companions, he doubted this man would be able to speak for all those who had taken refuge here. Nevertheless, he clearly commanded some form of regard, exchanging a few short words with the others before starting down the slope. Some of his companions followed immediately, all wearing similar colours and symbols to his own. The others lingered for a short time, exhibiting a fractious disunity as they exchanged shouts and threatened each other with raised weapons. Their disagreement proved short-lived, however, and soon all were following the older man to the valley floor.
Vaelin kept his eyes on the leading figure, not turning to witness the Wolf People coming to a halt at his back. The man walked towards him without undue haste, though there was a definite purpose to his gait. He halted twenty paces away, the other tribesfolk lining up on either side. Vaelin took hold of Scar’s reins and trotted him forward, stirring a ripple of unease throughout the small throng, though they made no move to oppose him.
He halted Scar a few yards short of the possible chieftain, looking into his face and seeing the besmirched, near-maddened gaze of a man who had lost much of his world in the space of a few days. Kiral had advised her song told of rage and confusion among these people, but sounded no note confirming they were on the right course. “My song grows darker and less tuneful every day,” she said. “Ever since we found the endless man. I doubt I have any more certainty to offer.”
But looking into the pain behind this man’s eyes, Vaelin saw all the certainty he needed. He had seen this face many times during the march towards Alltor. The face of the tortured, the raped, the widowed … and the vengeful.
His Volarian was poor, but Erlin had coached him on the correct pronunciation. “We go south,” he said, patting his chest and pointing to the southern end of the valley. “Kill Volarians. Come with us.”
CHAPTER TWO
Lyrna
Aspect Arlyn’s face betrayed no recognition as he regarded Nortah, nor any emotion at all as his gaze shifted to Lyrna, though his eyes narrowed slightly. Bound, Lyrna realised. Like Brother Frentis or the Kuritai. The Aspect reached over his shoulder to draw a sword of the Asraelin pattern, the steel bearing the signature flame-like markings of an Order blade.
“Aspect!” Nortah said again, taking a forward step, sword arm now limp at his side. “Do you know me?”
The Aspect’s gaze switched back to Nortah, the long features giving a faint tic of remembrance. “I know you, brother,” he said in a soft, reflective tone. “You died.”
He raised his free hand, paused a moment in expressionless consideration, then gave a barely perceptible flick of his wrist and the Arisai surged forward, manic joy on every face, swords moving in a blur of expertly wrought carnage. At first the Queen’s Daggers recoiled from the assault, Lyrna finding herself crushed between Davoka and Iltis as the surrounding ranks compressed, but the pressure slackened as they voiced another savage roar, rallied and fought back.
She struggled to turn, catching a glimpse of Nortah in combat with the Aspect, face drawn in reluctance as he fended off Arlyn’s blows. “Sister!” Lyrna called to Davoka, holding her spear above the thrashing ranks, eyes watching hawk-like for an opportunity to use it.
“The flasks!” Lyrna forced her way to the Lonak’s side, grabbing her arm. “Do you have the flasks?”
Davoka blinked at her in momentary bafflement then nodded, patting the small satchel at her side. “Only two.”
“Stay by me.”
She slapped Iltis’s shoulder to get his attention and pointed to Nortah, now backing away under a furious assault from the Aspect, dodging thrusts from the surrounding Arisai as he did so. Iltis nodded and began to push through the ranks of soldiers. As they neared the edge of the formation the Lord Protector was obliged to sidestep a thrust from an Arisai, the red-gauntleted hand holding the sword flashing into the space between him and Lyrna. She hacked down with the hatchet, the blade biting through the grieve to part sever the wrist. The Arisai collapsed at her feet, looking up with a grin, rich in lust and admiration. Lyrna’s hatchet came down again, shattering his skull above the eyes.
Iltis cleared the outer ring of soldiers and forced the Arisai back with wide sweeps of his sword. Lyrna held out a hand to Davoka who instantly filled it with a flask, the stopper already removed. Another Arisai slipped past Iltis, sword raised level with his head for a short, expert stab at Lyrna’s throat. Her hand jerked reflexively, casting a stream of dark liquid from the flask directly into his eyes. The reaction was instantaneous, the Arisai’s sword falling from his grip as he arched his back and howled, hands scrabbling at his face, fingers digging into the flesh. Watching him collapse to writhe on the temple floor, Lyrna had the satisfaction of seeing that all vestige of a smile had vanished from his face.
Nortah was only a few feet away now, forced to a crouch by the weight of Aspect Arlyn’s blows, all delivered with a blurring fury whilst his face remained a pale mask. A trio of Arisai charged into Iltis’s path, the combined assault forcing him to a halt, cuts appearing on his sword arm and forehead. Lyrna stepped to his side and swept the flask from left to right in a wide arc, the Mahlessa’s compound spraying forth to spatter onto the Arisai, most of the liquid falling onto their armo
ur but enough finding exposed flesh to send them screaming to the stone floor.
Beyond them Nortah was now on his back, scrabbling away as the Aspect loomed closer, blade flashing. The Lord Marshal fended off the blows with typical efficiency, but Lyrna noted how he still restrained himself, failing to thrust at the openings left by the Aspect’s relentless assault.
“Aspect Arlyn!” He paused at her call, sword drawn back and sparing her only a short, incurious glance, but it was enough. The flask was empty save for a few droplets on the nozzle. She put all her strength into the throw, the flask turning end over end to collide with the Aspect’s face. For a moment she thought it hadn’t worked, that all the compound had been exhausted, but then saw a single glistening bead on his cheek, his face transformed into a wide-eyed, frozen scream. He sank to all fours, his sword clattering to the stones, shuddering as he fought to control the convulsions.
One of the Arisai gave a regretful chuckle and rushed forward, blade poised to strike at the Aspect’s back, then doubled over as Nortah’s sword stabbed up to pierce his breastplate. The Lord Marshal surged to his feet, sword moving in a silver blur as more Arisai closed in.
“Rally to Lord Nortah!” Lyrna called to the surviving Daggers. There were no more than thirty now, but all still fighting and willing to follow their queen’s commands. She held out her hand to Davoka, taking the second flask and casting the contents at the Arisai as they surged anew, felling a dozen or more and causing the others to reel back. The sight of their comrades’ screaming convulsions seemed to denude their humour, many smiles faltering, and their laughter fading. Pain makes them human, Lyrna decided, moving to stand with the Daggers, now formed into a greatly diminished circle, only one rank thick. Nortah stood in the centre, crouched at the Aspect’s side, face livid with concern.
“My lord!” Lyrna snapped. “To your duties if you would!”
Nortah shot her a glance of barely concealed resentment then rose, moving to her side. “If Your Highness has any brilliant stratagem for this circumstance, I am keen to hear it.”
“Kill the enemy,” she said, tossing the empty flask aside and hefting her hatchet.
The spectre of a grin played over his lips for a second and he nodded. “What it lacks in subtlety it gains in directness, Highness.”
The Arisai edged closer, eyes fixed on Lyrna, wary for any sign of another flask. Their fallen comrades had stopped writhing and lay in rigid stillness, each face a rictus mask of agony, frozen in death. At least I taught them how to fear.
Her gaze was abruptly drawn to the temple’s southern quadrant by a rising blossom of orange flame, accompanied by the faint tumult of combat and curiously, the yapping of enraged dogs. Any elation she felt at the sight, however, was negated by the sheer number of Arisai standing in her way; the Empress had been wise in sending an ample supply.
Another gout of flame erupted beyond the Arisai followed by some kind of commotion, too distant to make out but she discerned a certain discord in the rear of their ranks. She saw one of the Arisai who had been edging closer come to a sudden halt, standing with his sword held up before his face, turning the blade in apparent bafflement. He blinked, brow furrowed in deep confusion, then, without pause, turned to the Arisai on his left and slashed the blade across his throat. One of his companions immediately cut him down, only to draw up short himself a second later, his face also taking on the same baffled expression. This newly confused Arisai abruptly launched himself into the midst of his comrades, slashing wildly with his sword, killing three before he too was hacked down.
“What is this?” Nortah breathed. “Your Lonak elixir, Highness?”
“No.” Lyrna’s gaze returned to the rear of the Arisai host, seeing the enemy ranks parting as if sliced by an invisible blade, allowing a trim figure to stride through, ignored by the surrounding Arisai, who all seemed to be wearing the same identical expression of utter bemusement. Aspect Caenis strode clear of the Arisai, offering Lyrna a stiff bow, blood streaming from his nose, eyes, ears and mouth, before turning his full attention to their enemies.
Off to the right another Arisai drove his sword into the belly of the man next to him, then another and another. The discord rippled through the red ranks like a wave spreading out from a pebble tossed into a pond, but birthing a storm instead of a ripple. Soon it seemed every Arisai in sight was fighting his neighbour, hacking at each other with a ferocity that belied their baffled expressions.
Caenis stood aside, gesturing at the path he had carved through the enemy ranks. “Go!” Lyrna ordered the surviving Daggers. “Escape this place.”
But they stayed, unwilling to leave without her. She went to Caenis’s side, seeing how he shuddered, the blood flowing in thick streams and his skin bleached white as snow. “Come, Aspect,” she said, taking hold of his hands.
“I … regret I must … abide here a while … Highness,” he replied, a red torrent escaping his mouth to cover his chin.
“Brother!” Nortah rushed forward, reaching out to grab at Caenis’s arms but the Aspect staggered away, reeling into the whirling mass of maddened Arisai, lost to sight amidst their fury, now rising to an even greater pitch of self-destruction. Nortah started after him, restrained only by Iltis and Davoka at Lyrna’s shouted instruction. She ordered the Daggers to gather up the still-unconscious Aspect Arlyn and led them through the battle to the temple steps, Nortah screaming in fury as Iltis and Davoka dragged him along in her wake.
Outside there were more bodies littering the steps and the ground beyond, Arisai and Realm Guard, plus a few in the unarmoured garb of the Seventh Order. A young woman with honey blond hair knelt at the side of a plump sister, tears streaming down her face, a brace of bloodied darts clutched between her knuckles. The plump woman was plainly dead, the steps beneath her covered in blood though her body showed no sign of injury. A dozen hunting dogs surrounded them, all sunk low to the ground and uttering piteous whines. Nearby Trella Al Oren stood amidst a dozen blackened bodies, her face streaked in blood and soot. A burgeoning dust cloud rose to the east, the dark shapes of many horsemen visible at its base, blue cloaks and green—the Sixth Order and the North Guard racing to the queen’s rescue.
Nortah was still straining against Iltis and Davoka, spouting rage-filled curses at them as he fought to return to the temple. Lyrna turned back, seeing how the Arisai’s fury continued unabated for several minutes then abruptly stopped, retreating from one another as if in answer to some silent command, gazing at the carpet of corpses covering the temple from end to end.
“Enough!” Lyrna said, striding to Nortah and delivering a hard slap to his jaw. His struggles ceased and he gaped at her, eyes momentarily so devoid of reason she wondered if he had been rendered mad. “He’s gone,” she told him, trying to gentle her tone. “See to your regiment, my lord.”
The Lord Marshal slumped, moving back from Davoka and Iltis, his eyes tracking over the remnants of the Queen’s Daggers now numbering barely two dozen souls. “Of course, Highness,” he muttered in a tone both caustic and weary. “My mighty force is yours to command.”
He pulled away and began to organise his survivors into some semblance of order. Lyrna turned as Brother Sollis reined in nearby, leaping from the saddle to hurry to where Aspect Arlyn lay between Murel and Alornis, his face betraying both shock and relief.
“Highness!” Brother Ivern drew up close by, staring down at her with an appalled concern that made her consider her appearance, liberally spattered with blood from head to toe and holding a reddened hatchet. “Do you require a healer?”
“No, thank you, brother.” Her eyes went to the North Guard, galloping to form a cordon between her and the temple. To the east more dust rose above a dense mass of running infantry, the banner of Al Hestian’s Dead Company visible through the haze.
“Where is the Battle Lord?” she asked Ivern.
The young brother’s expression became grim. “Wounded, Highness. It’s bad. There were Kuritai hidden among the Free
Swords, at least a thousand of the bastards.” Lyrna noted the bloody bandage covering Ivern’s hand. “They took some killing, I must say.”
She nodded and turned to the temple, watching the remaining Arisai forming themselves into well-ordered ranks once more. She couldn’t see their faces but the sound of their laughter was clear enough. One-half compelled to kill the other and it’s all just a fine jape.
“Find Lord Al Hestian,” she told Ivern. “He is to ring the temple to prevent the enemy’s escape. Have your brothers convey word to the other regiments to follow suit. Then bring me Lord Antesh.”
They tried to break out before the Realm Guard were fully in place, a tight wedge of five hundred Arisai launching themselves at Al Hestian’s regiment whilst the remainder split into smaller groups and attempted to escape to the south. Al Hestian’s dead men stood firm however, their line buckling under the impact of the charge but failing to break, their Lord Marshal taking position in the centre of the first rank. Lyrna heard later how he had used his spike to impale one of his men who turned his back on the enemy. After a quarter hour’s savage fighting, with the Realm Guard moving to outflank them, the Arisai retreated in good order, having lost about half their number. The smaller groups were continually assailed by the North Guard and the Sixth Order, cut down by the dozen until they too began to fall back. The Arisai formed a dense defensive square as they retreated, moving like a single laughing beast as it ascended the steps to dissolve into the confines of the temple.
“Give the word, Highness,” Lord Adal said, his usually handsome features rendered ugly by a lust for retribution. The Arisai seemingly had no notion of surrender and he had lost many North Guard in containing their escape. “We’ll scour the place clean for you.”
“If I may, Highness.” Lyrna turned to find Al Hestian pointing his bloody spike at the river. “Our cavalry should cover the hidden causeway and the northern bank. It’s their only remaining line of retreat.”