Wings of Wrath

  She had seen enough. Circling high over the heads of the waiting soldiers, she turned back toward the south. There was no longer any question of what she must do. If she wanted those two Guardians alive to serve her own needs, then she would have to turn them away from this trap. And there was only one way to do that with the power of the Wrath fouling her sorcery.

  She flew back to the place where she’d originally entered the glen, calculating that before the day was out the Guardians would pass by that spot. She found herself a thicket of dense brush where her transformation back into human form could be hidden from sight and buried herself in the heart of it, just in case there were scouts wandering about. Her wings ached from the long flight, but the freedom they gave her would be sorely missed. From this place she could sense the baleful power of the Wrath coursing down the long glen, foaming like white water as it rushed southward. The kind of sorcery required to take on animal form was complex and risky under the best of circumstances and unthinkable in such a setting. Whatever challenges she faced from now on, she’d be facing them in human flesh.

  Drawing in a deep breath, she tried to still the pounding of her heart. Reclaiming her human form would be risky here, but it should still be manageable. All living flesh had an innate preference for its natural form and would return to that form if sorcery did not actively prevent it from doing so. All she had to do was unweave the spell that had given her feathers and wings in the first place, and the rest should come naturally.

  Quiet. Quiet. Reach inside for the power at the core of the soul. Stolen power, sweet power. Grasp it, claim it, use it to unweave the spell that has bound the flesh to a foreign form. Feel bone and sinew responding. Reshaping. Cast aside the sorcery that has made it into something other than human, make it free it to become what it once was—

  And power burst forth from the center of her body, engulfing her in molten sorcery, unfettered by any human spell. Too much, too fast! Her body could not contain it. The flesh of her arms and legs began to liquefy, blood and sinew losing any semblance of cohesive form; fluid oozed forth from a twisted skeleton as convulsions of transformation wracked her frame. Feathers appeared upon her fingertips and then were gone as they switched helplessly back and forth from one form to another, unable to fix on a single identity. Kamala felt herself screaming, but her ears had melted and could not absorb the sound. Her skeleton cracked audibly as it expanded, contracted, expanded again. Her rib cage shrank to avian proportions around her human heart, strangling its beat, then expanded in a burst of pain.

  You cannot survive without a viable body for longer than a few seconds, Ethanus had once warned her. Never forget that.

  Gasping for breath whenever her lungs were coherent enough to allow for it, Kamala struggled to impose a human template upon the formless agony that was her flesh. Vital organs took shape at her command and then collapsed into themselves seconds later as raw transformative energy surged through them. Her heart managed half a dozen beats, then dissolved. Her lungs drew in two breaths, and then collapsed. Her limbs were clothed in skin one moment, and skinless in the next; red and blue veins snaked their way around her body, throbbing erratically as her heart struggled to reconstruct itself and then burst, spilling her life’s blood out upon the ground.

  Men who have their heads cut off have been known to blink for second or two afterward, Ethanus had taught her. That is all the time you can count on having, once your body can no longer sustain you.

  The pain was fading now, but that was not a good sign. All the sensory input she had was beginning to fail her; her flesh was expiring. But the spirit within her, that had gotten her through First Transition and beyond, refused to die. Struggling to control the power, she forced her heart to take shape once more, and then poured all her force of will into it in one last desperate bid to reclaim conscious control of her flesh. With each surge of blood a portion of her indomitable will flowed outward into her body, and with it all the force of her human identity. This is what the flesh must become! she screamed silently at her body. This is its natural state!

  And slowly, painfully, the tide of chaos receded. Inch by inch her body restored itself to what it was supposed to be; organ by organ it resumed its functioning. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she lay upon a bed of bloodstained grass, simply human. Simply breathing. Grateful to be alive.

  After another eternity, she found the strength to open her eyes and look around her. Only that much strength, and then they fell shut once more. But she had seen what mattered.

  It was dark. The sun had set long ago.

  She needed no sorcery to know that the Guardians had passed her by.

  She had failed to save them.

  The sun was beginning to go down by the time Rhys and Namanti reached the valley floor, and the high ridge to the west of them cast shadows across the dried riverbed. For a moment they both pulled up their horses, considering the options.

  It had been a long day. Rhys was used to riding long distances, but after the push to reach this point by sunset, even he was exhausted. Namanti’s mount was starting to get edgy—edgier than usual, that is—and even a brief stint without a rider had not done much to sooth his nerves. All of them needed a rest.

  Together the Guardians stared at the road ahead and considered what they had seen that day, why they had come.

  “We could make another few miles before nightfall,” Namanti offered.

  Grimly, Rhys nodded. Human exhaustion was a compelling argument, but the duty of a Guardian was even more compelling. Something was wrong in this part of the world, and the sooner they figured out what it was, the better. He sighed as he kicked his horse into motion once more, hearing him snort in indignation at the order. Soon, he promised him. The day is almost done. Have patience.

  They rode in silence through the lengthening shadows. The rhythmic creaking of leather and the jangling of tack took the place of conversation as the horses splashed their way through a succession of puddles, scattering frogs with each step. For reasons no one understood, amphibians seemed to be immune to the Wrath. Yet one more ancient mystery that the Guardians had failed to unravel.

  As they rode on, the valley began to narrow. Its walls rose up higher and higher on either side of them, until the last rays of direct sunlight were blocked; the puddles ahead of them turned to sleek black glass that fractured into a thousand glittering droplets as their horses splashed noisily through them.

  Time to call it a day, Rhys thought. It might take them a while to find a stretch of ground that was dry enough to camp. Better to do that before the last of the light was gone.

  His eyes were focused on the ground ahead when they came around a bend and suddenly found their way blocked. They had to pull their mounts up short to keep from barreling into the obstruction; the pack horses following behind them neighed in confusion as they paused to take stock of the situation.

  There was a tree lying across the streambed, effectively blocking any forward movement. It was a thick conical pine with long, close-set branches that appeared to have tumbled down the eastern wall of the valley. Rhys took note of the loose mound of dirt and rocks that must have come pouring down the valley wall when it fell. Must have been a victim of the spring rains, he thought. Such things were not unusual in this region, but they could be damned inconvenient.

  It was too thick an obstacle for them to lead the horses through it, and too high for them to jump over it safely. They’d have to move the cursed thing out of the way. Muttering invectives, Rhys prepared to dismount and motioned for Namanti to follow suit. He hoped they could get this taken care of before full darkness fell.

  But even as began to swing his leg over his saddle, he paused.

  Something was wrong. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was, just that it was . . . wrong.

  He looked over to Namanti. She hadn’t dismounted either, and from the look on her face she had the same sense of misgiving. It was a strange sensation, as though the mental capacit
y he needed to analyze the situation was there inside him, but he could not access it. He’d never felt anything quite like it before.

  Then Namanti hissed softly. He followed her gaze to the roots of the fallen tree. It took him a minute to realize what she had seen, but when he did, his blood turned to ice in his veins.

  They hadn’t torn loose from the ground.

  They’d been cut.

  Before he could draw in another breath a crossbow bolt struck him in the shoulder, hard enough that it almost knocked him from his saddle. Namanti’s Skandir mount squealed as it was struck by a second bolt, and he could see her struggling one-handed to keep him under control as she reached behind her for the small shield that hung from her pack. Hot pain lanced through his arm as he pulled his own horse quickly around, causing the next bolt to miss him by inches. Two more struck the leather packs strapped to his saddle. The shots were coming from directly above, which was bad, very bad. There was no way for them to go forward with the tree in their way, and no shelter in sight save the tree itself, which arrows could easily pierce. The only chance they had was to flee back the way they had come, but any ambush worth its salt would have made preparations to cover such a retreat.

  They were trapped.

  One of the pack horses squealed and went down; Rhys got his own mount out of the way just in time to avoid being carried down with it. Ignoring the molten pain in his arm, he pulled out the letter that Favias had given them and held it high. “We are Guardians!” he cried, angling it so that those high above them could see its seal. Every human being that lived in the Protectorates should respect such a sign. Even the bandits of the region gave Guardians a wide berth, either respecting their mission or simply because they feared retribution by a cadre of warriors said to be favored by the gods themselves.

  But these men respected nothing.

  With a sudden cry of defiance Namanti wheeled her horse around to face the valley wall and urged the beast into a run. At first Rhys thought she was going to try to get it to jump over the tree near its top, where the branches were smallest, in the hope it could carry them far enough to avoid being impaled when they landed. But then he saw that she was not heading for the tree but for the valley wall itself. There was one place where the slope was not as extreme as elsewhere and she was heading straight for it. He watched in fascinated horror as the massive beast leaped for the wall, momentum carrying him up the steep slope as his great hooves dug into the rocky earth, fighting for purchase. What the horse lacked in agility he made up for in raw power, forcing his way up the impossible slope step by step. Bolts struck him in the neck and shoulder as he climbed, and blood poured down his coat. Still he kept going, fighting for every inch, an angled ascent that would soon bring him over the top of the tree so that he could come down safely on the other side.

  She’s going to make it, Rhys thought in awe. Readying himself to follow suit if she did.

  But then the powerful hooves missed their grip; clods of earth went flying in all directions as the horse scrabbled desperately for purchase. Namanti shifted her weight, trying to help the horse regain his balance, but his momentum was gone now, and gravity’s grip was closing fast.

  Gravity won.

  The fall was not long, but it was brutal. Namanti was thrown from her saddle as the great horse struggled to right himself and was caught by one of his flailing hooves. Rhys heard the snap of bone as she landed hard amid the tree’s sharp branches. A moment later the horse came down on top of her and Rhys heard a sickening thud as nearly a ton of horseflesh slammed into the ground . . . and into her. Where one of her arms was visible he could see that it was broken in two places. Her head was twisted over to one side, her neck at an angle that implied the worst.

  With a cry of anguish, Rhys pulled his horse around and began a mad gallop southward. Never mind the ambush that might be waiting for him there; he would ride right through it if he had to. A terrible black mourning filled his heart, an utter determination to escape this trap and see that those who had brought Namanti down paid for it with their lives. If he had to brave a field of arrows to do that, then he would. There was really no other option, was there?

  Then his horse carried him around a bend, and he saw what was waiting for him and he pulled up, desperately, feeling his horse skid on the wet gravel underfoot as he tried to stop himself in time.

  In front of him was a line of men, all in identical helmets and breastplates, and in front of them was a line of stakes, each one as thick as his arm and fashioned in a deadly point. Each stake was fixed in the ground in such a manner that it was angled toward him; any horse bearing down upon such an array would surely impale itself . . . and its rider.

  I am going to die here, he thought in despair. He pulled out his sword from its saddle harness, but it was an empty gesture. He couldn’t get close enough to any of his attackers to use it without killing himself in the process. Then, for a moment, the entire world seemed to slow down around him. The strange mental fog that had possessed him at the tree was suddenly gone; each thought in his head became crystal clear and focused.

  It was said that one of the gifts of the lyr was that of a common consciousness. That a lyr who died in the service of the gods might bequeath memories of his death to his kin, for the sake of the greater battle. If so, then let that be his last act. He focused his attention on his attackers, drinking in every detail of their appearance—their race, their uniforms, their weaponry—inscribing it all as deeply into his memory as he could. Who was to say if the legends were true, or if his father’s blood alone was enough to give him access to the lyr’s special powers? Time seemed to hold still as he studied his enemy, so maybe that was a good sign. Perhaps his death would not be in vain.

  Then he heard a voice order, “Dismount!” and time resumed its normal pace.

  He slid from his saddle, his left leg almost collapsing under him as it hit the ground. Apparently he’d taken an arrow in his thigh during his meditation; only now did he feel the burning sensation of it. With effort he managed to stand upright, gritting his teeth against the pain. They would see no weakness in him, he swore. He would not give them the pleasure of seeing weakness in him.

  Several men stepped between the close-set stakes and walked toward him. His grip tightened on his sword, but he did not raise it up. They could easily have taken him down with a barrage of arrows with no risk to themselves; the fact that they were approaching him on foot instead might mean they did not intend to kill him after all.

  Then something struck him on the back of the head, sending the world spinning. He tried to turn to face his attacker, but his wounded leg wouldn’t support the twisting motion; a second blow landed as he fell to his knees in the stream bed. Remember this, he thought to the lyr, as his vision began to fail him. Avenge me!

  The roar of blood filled his ears as a third blow fell, then there was only darkness.

  Chapter 10

  THE GREAT tent gleamed in the sunlight, brilliant white beneath a clear blue sky. From the central poles flew golden banners emblazoned with the two-headed hawk of House Aurelius, snapping in the wind as if to make sure that they were noticed. The side poles were topped with finials in the shape of a hawk taking flight; in the bright morning sunshine the polished golden feathers were almost too bright to gaze upon.

  Of similar brightness was the company gathered inside. Male and female, young and old, there were too many in attendance to count, and all were dressed in their finest silks. Princes and nobles stood with their households, family and attendants, all clad in their heraldic colors, so that it was possible to judge the size of every retinue in a single glance. Their colors—and their wealth—dazzled the eye.

  The only ones missing from the crowd—and they were noticeable by their absence—were the priests. The pantheistic faiths of the region were not happy about Salvator’s elevation. Not happy at all. Who could predict whether this monk-turned-king might take it upon himself to cleanse the High Kingdom of its many temp
les? Danton Aurelius had been a ruthless man, sometimes even a brutal one, but at least he had steered clear of any interference with religion. I have enough enemies already without pissing on the gods, Danton used to say. Not so his son. Salvator’s god was known to be a jealous, vindictive deity who acknowledged no rival to his power. The last time mankind had angered him he had brought the First Age of Kings to its knees—or so the Penitents claimed—and nearly wiped out the human race in doing so. The only thing that kept him from throwing his weight around now was the limited size of his following; a faith born of guilt and self-denial was limited in its appeal to the masses. But with a Penitent monk about to claim man’s greatest empire, that picture could easily change. No, the priests of other religions were not happy about Salvator’s elevation at all, and those who were attending the coronation stayed far to the back of the crowd and tried not to draw attention to themselves.

  At one end of the tent was a grand dais, with two sets of silk-cushioned chairs flanking a single throne. Those who had been to one of Danton’s formal courts would recognize that the throne was his, and would know that the personal emblems of all the ruling families of the High Kingdom had been worked into its intricate carvings. It was a large and heavy piece, as Danton had been large and heavy, and it stood upon a small secondary dais of its own, high enough above the throngs of guests that one could see it even from the back row.

  It was time.

  A line of trumpeters that stood the length of the great tent split the air with a sharp fanfare; immediately all chatter was silenced. A herald whose tabard was emblazoned with the double-headed hawk stepped up to the dais and struck his staff upon it three times, producing a booming sound that filled the sunlit space. He waited until all eyes were upon him, and then announced, in a voice that carried clear to the back of the hall, “Her Royal Highness, Shestia Aurelius Casca.” Normally there would have been a long string of titles to follow that one, but today those other titles did not matter. Those who sat upon the royal dais were Salvator’s blood kin, family of the deceased High King, and that was the only position that mattered.