THE ORLANDAN PLATEAU, ON THE KREVENSFIELD PLAIN, SOUTH OF BETHANY
“Anborn! Hie, Anborn!”
The Lord Marshal reined his black warhorse to a clean halt in the high morning wind, then looked down the hill over his shoulder.
Solarrs, his lead scout and longtime man-at-arms, was urging his red war mare up the rise, struggling to catch up with him. His silver mane of hair shone like a dim candle atop an otherwise black shadow of man and horse in the rosy glow of foredawn.
Anborn pulled himself up taller in his high-backed saddle, enjoying the stretch in his lower leg as he pushed successfully against the stirrup while he waited.
From atop the small hill he surveyed the distant encampments that he and his field commanders had recently set up across the Orlandan Plateau, as well as those in the valley immediately below, coming to light with the dawn as the rim of a glowing red sun approached the horizon.
The Krevensfield Plain was an immense grassland, with wide horizons on every side. Settled chiefly by families of farmers in small communities that dotted the landscape, the only other sign of civilization or their inclusion in a larger empire was the trans-Orlandan thoroughfare. The roadway had been built in the Cymrian Age and bisected the Middle Continent from the outer edge of the Great Forest of the west coast to Bethe Corbair, the easternmost Orlandan province before the mountains officially known as the Manteids, but more commonly referred to as the Teeth. The Lord Marshal had made the process of connecting those communities with military encampments that would serve to protect, and be fed by, those farming villages his first priority in building a battle line in the south.
While he awaited his scout, Anborn’s eyes narrowed against the blast of seeds and grass flecks carried on the morning wind. He had sat atop a horse just like this one many times at almost this very spot, and hills just like it, observing other such encampments. He had seen these fields run red with blood and strewn with broken bodies, great stretches of fertile farmland dissolved into black ash. Four hundred years of flaccid peace had held sway since that terrible war ended, but the hollow, victory-less finale to it all had never washed away the stains from history.
Stains he had been largely responsible for.
Yet now, deep within him, as his legs began to show signs of life once more, he was starting to feel the twinges of rebirth and renewal in other parts of him as well.
In a rumbling of horseflesh and the huffing of breath, Solarrs summited the hill, dragging his mount to a dancing halt.
“Breathe first, then report,” said the Lord Marshal mildly as the scout began to speak.
Solarrs eyed him with suspicion.
“What has—you in such a—bloody fine mood?” he demanded between breaths.
Anborn thought about answering honestly, then gave in to his baser nature and the easier convenience of a highly believable lie.
“The attentions of a bloody fine bedwench earlier this morning,” he said smugly. “While you were riding hard from Sepulvarta under the cover of night, I was riding hard as well—or, more accurately, being ridden. So what news do you bring?”
Solarrs pulled himself up straighter as the horse settled.
“We retrieved a carcass of one of the flying beasts employed by Fhremus’s army at Sepulvarta,” he said, wiping his forehead with the back of his sleeve. “It’s an unholy creature, monstrous; seemingly equal parts insect, lizard, and bat. It has mandibles reminiscent of the ancient plague locusts, but its hide is almost stonelike.”
Anborn’s azure eyes began to gleam, but otherwise his face was expressionless.
“They are apparently voracious in appetite; the squadron that assaulted the holy city has devastated the fields surrounding Sepulvarta’s walls and ramparts,” Solarrs continued. “Additionally, they seem to be somewhat fragile, or at least short-lived; there were a number of whole bodies of the beasts in the outer fields where we captured this one.” He pointed down the hill to a horse-drawn wagon, which was approaching. “They don’t last after death, apparently; this one has become little more than shell in the time it took us to travel here. Oh—and they seemed to be called ‘yak-sis,’ or something to that effect—at least that’s what the spies discerned.”
“Iacxsis,” Anborn murmured distantly.
“What’s that?”
“Iacxsis,” the Lord Marshal repeated gruffly. “It’s an old word, a word from before the Cymrian era, from a time of ancient gods and animist beliefs. I would think you would be more likely to recognize it than I, Solarrs, being a First Generationer of the Third Fleet—when Gwylliam landed at the Skeleton Coast, and you all had to fight your way to this place through the indigenous tribes of Sorbold—that’s where the word is from. Before my time.”
Solarrs shrugged.
“Can’t say I remember hearing it.”
Anborn pulled himself up to a full seat, guiding his horse in a half-turn.
“It was the name of the god of destruction, who rained death from the skies,” he said. “Come, show me this thing.”
Without another word the two soldiers rode back to the wagon.
* * *
Anborn remained atop his steed as Solarrs vaulted down from his beside the wagon.
The scout took hold of the ropes that had secured the cargo as the soldiers driving and guarding the wagon saluted the Lord Marshal, who acknowledged and dismissed them. Solarrs grunted at the weight of the heavy sheeting weighed down with rope stock, then dragged it back, revealing the carcass.
Anborn maneuvered his mount closer.
The beast had begun to dissolve into an almost skeletal state, its carapace brittle and cracked. It had, in its lifetime, a wingspan that exceeded fifteen feet, and long, segmented legs that appeared insectoid, just as its immense jaw and hinged mandibles did.
The hide that covered the wings had already had begun to tatter; Anborn pulled his glove off and ran his index finger along it. It crumbled into sand beneath his touch. His eyes flamed with blue fire.
“Living Stone, I’ll wager,” he said darkly. “Constantin was right; the bastard has been despoiling Terreanfor, the cathedral of elemental earth in Sorbold. So this is what he has used it for.”
“As well as the titan,” Solarrs reminded him. “Did you not say he had animated a giant statue of a soldier on the Scales of Jierna Tal?”
“Indeed,” Anborn said, pulling on his glove again. “By the time he’s done, the miscreant may have even topped my list of crimes with his own.”
“An ambitious undertaking, that,” said Solarrs humorously, receiving a sour look in return. “So what are your next orders?”
“Tell Knapp to saddle up. We have but one last outpost to set up and arrange to provision, at the very edge of the Plain and the foot of the steppes before the Teeth.”
Solarrs sighed.
“Returning voluntarily to within sight of Canrif; now, that’s something I never thought I would see you do again.”
Anborn smiled; it was a melancholy smile, one with deep history beneath it, etched into the bones and muscles of his face.
“I’ll show you something else I imagine you never thought you would see me do again, Solarrs. Are you watching?”
“Aye, m’lord.”
As if literally throwing caution to the winds, Anborn tossed the reins over the horse’s neck. Carefully he raised himself up using the great strength in his arms, as he always had, but rather than awaiting assistance, he swung his leg over the horse’s side and lowered himself to the ground.
Then stepped away, standing on his own.
The silver-haired soldier’s eyes opened wide, and he coughed, then choked.
Then he let out a loud, boisterous laugh. After a moment, Anborn joined in.
Solarrs, by nature fairly quiet and taciturn, broke into a smile so wide that it almost threatened to crack the weathered leather of his face.
“Well, well, isn’t this interesting?” he said when he was finally able to form words.
“Aye, indeed,” the Lord
Marshal agreed. “Just when you were probably beginning to believe that the miracles were all on the side of our enemies. Come, help me mount again. Getting down is something I can reliably do; I’m still working on reliably getting back up again. Then snag Knapp and Constantin, and let’s be on our way; I have a final outpost to install, and a beloved lady to visit.”
14
THE CAULDRON, YLORC
Rocky boye, baby
So tiny an’ sweet,
Don’t fall from yer cradle,
You’ll damage the meat—
’Ave a nice morning,
Enjoy all yer play
You’ll be in my gut
By the end of the day
“All right, that’s enough of that lullabye,” Rhapsody said, laughing along with her son, who was giggling as Grunthor crooned to him, slightly off-key, while dangling a necklace of subterranean wolf teeth that was making a pleasant clacking sound over his tiny head. The Sergeant-Major inhaled deeply, sucking in his nostrils until they turned inside out, causing Meridion to break into squealing gales of laughter, and Rhapsody to spit her tea across the breakfast table, inadvertently spraying Achmed, who had just sat down.
“It’s so lovely having you back here, Rhapsody,” the Bolg king said sourly as the door of the dining hall balcony opened. Trug, the Archon in charge of communications known as the Voice, entered silently and bowed politely.
“What is it?” Achmed demanded, wiping his chest off with his napkin.
“Avian messages, Majesty,” Trug said. He crossed to the king and handed him the leg containers from the messenger birds, then turned to Rhapsody and gave her two as well. Grunthor put out his enormous hand, claws extended hopefully, but Trug hurried past him and closed the door quickly behind him, missing the enormous pout that came over the Sergeant’s face.
“Awww. Nobody ever sends me mail. It’s breakin’ my ’eart.”
“I sent messages to you all the time when I was in Haguefort or Tyrian,” Rhapsody said as she broke the wax seal on the first message and slid a tiny piece of parchment out of the small steel tube. “I don’t remember getting any back from you.”
“Not true. Oi ’ad several lovely shrunken ’eads delivered to you with an ’eartfelt poem for yer birthday just last summer.”
“Oh, right. I’d forgotten. Thank you again.” She unrolled the message carefully. The miniature, carefully graphed antiquated script was instantly recognizable as that of Rial, her viceroy in the Lirin kingdom, over which she reigned as titular queen.
Have made the attempt you requested. Was refused. Very relieved. LLTQ
Rhapsody sighed.
“Well?” Achmed was unsealing his own message tubes.
“Rial did as I asked at the meeting in Haguefort, and attempted to pick up the diadem of the Lirin kingdom, but was unable to do so; apparently the crown refused him.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Achmed said as the first scrap of oilcloth slid into his hand.
“Rial doesn’t seem to think so—he signed it ‘Long Live the Queen.’ I’m sure he’s smirking as we speak. Who is yours from?”
Achmed’s mismatched eyes were scanning the scrap.
“Your husband’s uncle.”
“Anborn?”
“Well, since the other one lives two thousand leagues away in the middle of the ocean, I would imagine it might be difficult getting a message from him by bird, unless it was a giant albatross,” Achmed said. “Yes, Anborn. He says he is coming to speak with me, and will be here, most likely, tomorrow morning.”
Rhapsody smiled. “Good; it will be nice to see him.” She broke the second seal and slid the missive from its housing. She unrolled the tiny scroll, smiling slightly as she read the words of love in Ancient Lirin that Ashe sent every morning, then tucked it away and rose. “I need to look in on Rath.”
“He was asleep a few moments ago,” Achmed noted, having just come from the injured Dhracian’s makeshift bedside in the hospice room in the well of Grivven Peak. “His breathing is much better.”
“Good; that’s good.”
The Bolg king nodded. “If you’re going to assess him, or speak with him, I want to be there.”
“Well, finish your breakfast and reading your mail and then join me at his room. I will wait for you before saying much to him. He needs to be encouraged to eat and drink, but I don’t know what is customary to the Dhracian diet. I would hazard a guess that yours is more Bolg.”
“Undoubtedly. Even I don’t know what real Dhracians eat and drink.”
“One more thing he can teach you about your mother’s people, then,” Rhapsody said.
“If you think he might like the Bolg diet we could feed Meridion to him,” Achmed offered.
“Oi would ’ave to object to that,” Grunthor interjected. “Oi ’ave first claim there. If nobody’s gonna send me messages, Oi should at least get to snack on the lit’le prince.”
“Bad idea,” Rhapsody said humorously. “He has dragon blood; I’m sure whatever Bolg or Dhracian ate him would end up with a stomach ache at best, and poisoned at worst. The last thing you want is a serious case of dysentery from a poorly considered snack. I’m sure all the soldiers who share the barracks with you would agree.”
She rose and kissed Grunthor’s cheek, dissolving his look of mock disappointment into a grin, then made her way out of the room to the tunnels of the hospice, Meridion wrapped securely in her arms, as she wished he could have been in the mist cloak his father had given her to keep them both safe and hidden from eyes that had the power to scry for them from afar.
As well as from her hungry Firbolg friends.
But, given that the mist cloak had been destroyed in the fire of the dragon Anwyn’s breath on their way to the Teeth, she would just have to be extra vigilant.
And hide him in her own cloak.
* * *
The door opened with only the slightest sound.
Rhapsody glanced quickly inside, then knocked softly.
From the bed inside the room, the dark head of the Dhracian hunter turned slowly and opened his eyes.
“Rath?” she said softly. “May I enter?” The ancient man in the bed nodded. She came into the room and closed the door quietly behind her.
“How are you feeling?” she asked as she approached the bed. She reached into the pocket of her cloak and drew forth her lark’s flute, a tiny reed instrument she carried with her when traveling.
“Grateful,” Rath whispered.
“Achmed will be here momentarily,” Rhapsody said. She let her eyes wander over the exposed parts of the Dhracian’s body, his head, neck, and arms, taking note of the return of color to his skin, the quieting of his exposed veins, the absence of blood in his black eyes. “You need to take some nourishment, some fluid—what can I get for you?”
The Dhracian shook his head. “Later. Not yet.” He closed his eyes as if in pain. “My thanks.”
“If you wish, I could sing you a windsong,” Rhapsody said, feeling awkward. “Or play for you on the lark’s flute; it’s a gentle instrument.”
A ragged smile appeared on the Dhracian’s face.
“Again, later, if you please,” he said. “I am trying to reach my brother hunters.”
Rhapsody glanced around the room. It was an interior chamber, windowless, as most of the rooms in Ylorc were.
“How careless of me,” she murmured. “I’m sorry—I can have you moved to a chamber with an aperture that opens out onto the western steppes, where the wind can enter. How foolish of me—”
“Peace,” said the Dhracian. “You were wise to put me in the solace of dark stillness, where I could rest and heal. In a few more hours, I will be well enough to walk on my own, and then I will accept your kind offer. For now, I must tell you something.”
Rhapsody looked back as the door opened silently, and the Bolg king entered the room.
“Achmed is here now,” she said.
Rath nodded again.
“I must report t
o you the outcome of the hunt,” he said, taking his time with each word. “I know you have already discerned that I failed, that the Thrall ritual was broken. What you do not know is this—what broke my performance of the ritual was the intervention of a giant man of Living Stone, a soldier. He attacked me just as the host of the demon succumbed, but before the demon itself did, tossing me across the forest glade and into a tree with ease.”
Rhapsody and Achmed looked at one another.
“The titan of Sorbold,” the Bolg king said. “He was said to have disappeared from Sepulvarta after successfully leading the assault on the city.”
“I wonder why he went to Navarne,” Rhapsody said.
“Most probably because he sensed another of his kind on the wind.” Rath’s voice was little more than a whisper.
“Of his kind?”
“It was hard to discern, but within the stone statue I could sense something with the taint of F’dor, but not one of the known pantheons. I am not certain, but I suspect it might be a Faorina, the hideous result of F’dor procreation with a being of another race. They are extremely rare, as their conception and birth requires the demon to part with a piece of its own essence, diminishing its power permanently, something very few F’dor are willing to undertake. But whatever was powering that statue, it had a spark of life, and as a result, it was enough for the F’dor known as Hrarfa, the beast that I was attempting to destroy, to cling to it as a host. It took her on willingly.”
“Gods,” Rhapsody whispered.
“Do you know where it went?” Achmed asked.
Rath shook his head with effort.
“I was a bit distracted, trying to escape on the wind,” he said. “I have experienced some bad luck with the availability of air currents of late, but, thankfully, just before the titan bore down on me again, I was able to catch one and be lifted away. The wind was kind in getting me back to you here, as well.”
“We have to get word to Ashe,” Rhapsody said to Achmed as Meridion began to make buzzing and cackling sounds within her cloak. “Perhaps I can transmit a message to him if you are ready to test the blue spectrum.”