Authors: V. Holmes
“I killed men in Vielrona. I barely remember it, but it’s always there, in the back of my thoughts. Arman tells me it couldn’t be helped, that it was my power, not me.”
Bren sat back. “No, he’s wrong. It was you. You are your power.”
She glanced at him sharply.
His eyes were gentle. “You killed them, and it’s all right.”
Φ
The 27th Day of Vurgmord, 1251
The West of the Hartland Forest
The dense trees sheltered the army from incessant wind off the Felds. The combined Miriken and Berrin, just over 2,300, moved slowly. Only the officers and vanguard were mounted. Captain Orrin glanced again at the hint of sun through the canopy. A mile ahead the lieutenant of the vanguard signaled they closed in on their destination. Azirik’s missives dictated they meet at the fork of the river. The knight who led the Miriken regiment took up the rear, though their men had not remained completely segregated.
They emerged into a clearing at the joining of two rivers. The vanguard began to lay camp, and by the time the last ranks arrived, shielded cook fires burned and the sun was low. Orrin was studying the maps when an alert for an approaching ally went up. He hurried from his tent to see Azirik ride in. The king brought only a patrol with him, as well as a few riders Orrin did not recognize. Azirik’s seat on his white charger was flawless, and Orrin winced. The Berrin were not horsemen by any stretch of legend, so Orrin never minded that he sat his mount like a sack of fish-guts. That is, until he saw Mirik’s king, who rode as if born to it. Shaking away the injury to his pride, he raised a hand in greeting. Azirik’s men set up their own camp. The four strange riders followed the king as he went to Orrin. Two dressed in buckskin, the others in flowing robes.
Azirik took Orrin’s arm. “The sieges are going as planned, no substantial enemy reinforcements thus far.” He spoke without preamble. “How goes the march?”
“Fair. We made good time across the Felds.”
“My men are glad to be out of them—the wind is torture.”
“Reminds us of home,” Orrin said with a hoarse laugh. “You rode from the Iron Sea?”
“Through the nights.” Azirik’s face twisted. “We caught word that the chit still lived. We thought to end her in the sea, but she has a better idea of her power than our informants led us to believe.”
“What is your next move?” Orrin sat by his fire and gestured for Azirik to join him. “Return to Mirik?”
Azirik stared at the fire thoughtfully. “Mirik has served her worth. I need an outpost on the mainland. I have one in mind.” He gestured to the warriors at the edge of the firelight. “I bring allies. The ones in skins are Bordermen. They prove invaluable to our journey and I hope these two will accompany you on your next assignment.”
Orrin peered closer. Their tanned skin was tattooed, one bearing lark’s wings on his cheeks, the other fox-tracks across his brow. Bone and wood fastened their myriad braids. The fox-marked man offered his arm, “I am Vuli and this is Irer.”
Orrin greeted them before turning to the others. They were tall, with layers of cloth wrapped over their breeches. Their heads were topped in tight leather caps. “You are the Vales?”
The brighter-clad man nodded. “Ju-al Rones the Junior. I am an interpreter and this is my guard, Baj-ik. His Majesty King Azirik requested I help with discussions when my fellows arrive.”
Orrin turned to Azirik once again. “Are we still to attack Fort Shadow?”
“It will receive reinforcements in a week in response to the sieges no doubt. Make certain it is yours before then.” He handed the general a thick envelope. “This is the intelligence the Bordermen found. The Athrolani may retaliate, as Shadow is close to their capital. Let them fight you, but do not let them win. I want you to occupy them for as long as possible.”
“You are moving your home-post and need them to be blind to it.”
“I will expect regular reports. You will remain well informed of the enemy—Vuli has a companion traveling with the Dhoah’ Laen.” He glanced over at his emblazoned tent beside Orrin’s own. “We will be gone before sunup. Come pray with me.”
Orrin followed him into the dark green tent. One wall held a wooden altar, flanked by two soldiers. Priests’ robes belted over armor were an eerie sight. Azirik knelt before the altar, pushing back his hood. Orrin did likewise, nervous. He knew the rites, but no Berrin was as devout as Azirik. The Miriken crown glinted as Azirik placed it on his lap. The king produced a hollow bull’s horn from his belt, uncapping the point and poured fine ash into a copper disk. The priests poured a few drops of dark oil over the ash while Azirik cut a shallow slit in his forearm. The blood dripped into the disk. He took Orrin’s arm and cleanly made a similar wound. As his blood joined the strange mixture, Orrin noticed the hundreds of healing slices on Azirik’s arms.
He has done this countless times.
He thought back on his own poor observance of rites and holidays. The disk was hung on a metal hook in the ridgepole
Ash, blood and oil slid slowly down the copper. “From the ashes of your enemies, from the blood of your servants, from the oil of your temples, I beg you hear your devoted soldier.” Azirik bowed his head. “I beg you speak, Desmondu, lord of all gods, son of Numon Laenslayer. I beg you tell me your orders, so you may rise again.”
Nothing happened for a moment, then the mixture on the disk writhed into the shape of a face. The first thing that stuck Orrin was that it was decidedly human. Perfect in its proportions and symmetry, perhaps, but quite human. The god's hair was bright auburn, his skin glowing and tanned. His eyes were pure copper. “Azirik.” Perhaps it was the distance and the medium, but his voice was emotionless. “Orrin too.”
“Lord Desmondu,” Azirik bowed lower, not even glancing through his lashes. “My thanks for our luck and victories thus far.”
“Not as many as I would have liked. What happened on the Iron Sea, Azirik?”
“She reflected the power back, I think. If we capture her, we need a way to bind her.”
“
When
you capture her, you will kill her without delay.” The rebuke was cold.
“Of course, my lord.” While not contemptuous, Azirik's reply was not humble and Orrin found himself admiring the way the king held his own against the Lord of the Gods. “And in what way do you suggest we kill her?”
“She can die, like any Laen.”
“Do you not wish me to destroy her power as well?”
The god paused, a frown appearing. “As my father did with their leader?
“Numon destroyed her completely, did he not? How was it done?”
“Capture and bind her. We will come and end her together,” Desmondu decided.
“The metal-woven ropes were useless against the others of her kind. Do you suggest chain?”
“Make them with the Crown. Make them of steel. She is untrained, I do not see why we cannot craft one that will hold her.” Desmondu sounded impatient. “Speaking of, don the Crown, will you?”
Azirik unlocked a drawer in the altar. Resting on red velvet was the Crown of the gods.
Orrin’s gut lurched at the sight. He had heard Azirik possessed the Crown, but seeing it was different. Irregular blood-color jasper studded the hammered copper. The king placed it carefully on his head, arranging his braided upper hair to hang over the metal in the back.
“I am tired of not always seeing what transpires.” Desmondu’s voice was abruptly casual. “I thought you might wear it more often.” Seeing the tightness on Azirik’s face, he laughed lightly. “Oh, come now. I know it’s uncomfortable for mortal men, but do realize it could be worse.” The last word was hard and fierce. The Crown hummed.
Azirik winced as the metal bit into his head. It squeezed through the thin layer of flesh and fused to the skull. His eyes screwed shut and he let out a low moan. Blood oozed down his face and the smell of burnt bone lay heavy in the air. Azirik no longer had a choice to wear the Crown. He met Desmondu’s gaze, “Am I mistaken, or do you no longer trust me?” His voice was clipped with pain.
“One of your men deserted you and still lives. I trust you will do your utmost to bring us victory from this point forth.” The god’s face disappeared from the disk, leaving a strange silence. Orrin looked over at the king. The sight of metal melded to bone and skin made his stomach heave again. He had seen most gory deeds in battle, but this was worse.
"Gods help us," has a new meaning after this.
He helped Azirik to his feet. Unsure of what to say, he glanced over. “There was a deserter?”
“A lieutenant. He joined them. If I had known before he was gone, the problem would have been rectified.” He gestured to the tent flap, “We have a long ride ahead and little sleep behind us. Send word when you sack Fort Shadow.”
Orrin heard the dismissal and bowed. “Of course. May the gods guide your sword.” The saying tasted stale on his tongue as he entered his own tent. His faith did not waver, despite his unease, but invoking the Lord of the Gods had not changed him in the way he expected. After seeing the strength with which Azirik faced his deity and punishment, Orrin respected the man far more. The king would cut the right path. Kneeling at his own altar, to the Berrin’s patron gods of the sea, Burme, he began to pray anew. “God of Sea, of rhythm, of change, grant us victory in this battle. Grant us freedom from the dictatorship of the Laen. Grant us sight to see our paths and heart to choose them. Shield our presence like fog over waves and speed us home on your winds. Save us from error and corruption and the wrongness that runs in the blood of the Dhoah’ Laen and her fellows.” The image of the Crown searing Azirik’s flesh flashed through his mind. “Lastly, grant us peace.”
Φ
The 29th Day of Vurgmord, 1251
The City of Ceir Athrolan
The cry of “land sighted” rang from the mast at noon. The Iron Sea narrowed to a deep, broad river. The sail downriver was the last stretch of the journey to Ceir Athrolan. Alea emerged from her bunk at the news, standing quietly at the rail. The storm was still fresh in the others’ minds, but she ignored the whispers.
The land on either side was grassy and rolling, dotted with small forests. Alea laughed at the sight of deer along the riverbanks. The air was almost warm. It was mid afternoon when the land rose into a small canyon. The river grew wider and the scent of salt drifted in the wind.
“Will we see the ocean?” Alea peered forward, eyes trained for the sight of waves.
Eras smiled at the young woman’s eagerness. “We will. We’ll enter the harbor from it. I regret to tell you it looks much the same as the Iron Sea. The waves are bigger perhaps.”
Alea shrugged. “It smells different enough.” When they emerged, it was into the open expanse of the ocean.
Beside Alea, Arman’s mouth fell agape. He had been in awe of the sea, but the waves had been small and at times land was visible to the west. The ocean was green-black and the air was noticeably cooler. The waves crashing against the boat and cliffs were as tall as a man and frothing. The cliffs themselves were stark white, carved into ridges by the constant wind. “It’s amazing.”
The wind caught their sails and the ship picked up speed. The
M. Xavier
scuttled around a bend where the cliffs dipped inward. Nestled at the center of the inlet sat Ceir Athrolan. The city and harbor had been carved in broad tiers from the white rock. Towers flanked the harbor, dwarfed only by those along the city walls. Their tops were jagged and ancient, flying deep turquoise banners. White roads, shining like silver, ran along the harbor warehouses. Homes and businesses were built above the warehouses and, several levels higher, sat the palace.
They glided into the harbor. A bridge spanned the port’s entrance, supported by stone pylons 100 paces tall. Arman gently touched Alea’s shoulder. Doubt had rooted firmly in their minds since Fort Hero. Even his own unwavering faith had suffered. If they made it this far, though, what could stand in their way?
Φ
Alea settled herself in the saddle with a resigned sigh. Knowing her destination was visible at the top of the city helped little. The horses were thinner from the voyage, but eagerly pranced around the docks. “What of our things?”
“They will follow and be laid out in our rooms by the time we arrive.” Raven swung onto his charger. He took up the rear while Eras escorted them up the white cobbled street. Along the largest of the roads were arched aqueducts. The first tier from the docks housed lower class businesses and taverns, the quality growing higher as they ascended. The palace’s large dome rose above the city like a second sun. The widest road ran east-to-west, curving around the northern wall of the palace and bordering the royal gardens before entering the distant woods.
At Eras’ raised hand, they were allowed through the courtyard gates. The sounds of the city muted as the gates rolled closed again. The air filled with the sound of water from the drinking fountain in the corner. Stables stretched the length of the palace’s western wall.
A group of palace guards and the steward met them at the dark, double doors to the interior. “Welcome.”
Eras handed her reins to a squire, “Is Her Majesty receiving us already?”
The steward chuckled. “Guest this important? Her Majesty has been ready for the past two days. She understands the value of a bath and fine clothes for such things, however." The north wall of the entry room was glass, behind which was a small aviary and indoor garden. Alea’s wonder at Vielrona’s castle paled in comparison to the awe at Ceir Athrolan’s splendor. The halls were a series of marble arches. The walls in between were inlaid with mosaics or mirrors. Eras and Raven retired to their permanent residences on the other side of the palace, while the rest were shown to their guest chambers. Alea’s were in the corner near the southeast tower, her guard’s beside it and Bren’s next to his. The steward handed them the keys. “Maids will bring whatever you ask and water is being drawn now for your baths. The midday meal can be taken in your rooms, though the gardens are beautiful in such weather.” He smiled. "Might you need anything else?”