The Fall of the Dagger (The Forsaken Lands) (38 page)

“I don’t fight. I use my witchery, but I don’t think that’s going to be much help in this. A sorcerer isn’t usually deceived by a glamour. Grey Lancers tend to kill everyone who isn’t another Grey Lancer. If I were to try to scare them with a monster, they’d kill what they
saw without a second thought. If I disguise myself as a Grey Lancer, then I’ll get killed by one of you. I thought I might be more use helping the healers—”

A blast from a horn echoed from the edge of the ridge and was almost immediately taken up in the distance to both the right and the left.

“An attack,” Gerelda said, dropping the mug without a second thought. “At last.”

Saker saw it all.

He also did something he’d never done before: he switched every few minutes between being in his body and twinning with the bird’s, stretching his strength and his hold on reality to its limit until his mind was spinning, his thoughts confused and his stomach rebelling. Back in his body, he spoke to Deremer, who would then give orders to his runners, or to his trumpeters, so that the message would go to his fighters.

“… There’s a group of Grey Lancers trying to circle through the marsh and attack from behind.”

“… More men needed to reinforce the slope near the birch copse to the north.”

“… The three remaining sorcerers are still separated. The one to the north doesn’t have many guards. Might be the best target…”

“Ruthgar is not moving…”

Grey Lancers died under a wave of arrows and gunfire. He watched as weakened lances shattered and pike staves splintered. A few made it through that barrage of arrows to the top of the slope, only to fight hand to hand with a coercion-inspired madness that brought down far too many good men. Gerelda was in the midst of it, and fear for her gripped his stomach. Ardhi, bare-chested and barefoot, fought alongside her, his kris sometimes whirling from his hand and returning, dripping blood.

He saw one of Fritillary’s witans sneak down the slope during the fighting, until he reached the central camp of the lancers. Once there, he loosed their horses from the picket line. Saker watched from the eagle as a sorcerer was trampled to death, unable to coerce a man with a horse witchery.

Another Fox son dead.

Two more remaining…

And one was Ruthgar. He knew what the fellow looked like now; unprepossessing. Thin, medium in height, narrow across the shoulders, dressed without much of the usual Fox flamboyance and display of wealth. The only gold he wore was the Fox family emblem in the form of a brooch at his throat. A man, therefore, who put more store by his safety than by any need to declare his position, or boast of his wealth. To Saker, it was a mark of the man’s intelligence, an indication of how dangerous he was.

Hour after hour as the morning wore on the eagle circled overhead and Saker spied. He surveyed the battlefield with an aching heart, as the fight flowed down the slope when the Dire Sweepers succeeded, then ebbed upwards as the Grey Lancers recovered. He watched while people died, or slipped into some place between life and death. He saw the blood, the splintered bones, the guts, the decapitated bodies, the missing limbs. The stench of war and death, the screams of the wounded, the details of the dying – they reached his Avian senses too easily, far too vividly, etched into his memory by an eagle’s enhanced sense of sight and smell.

“We may not be losing this,” he told Deremer on one of his return trips around midday, “but we aren’t winning either.” Dizziness gripped him, and his words were slurred, as though he had lost the art of speaking. He wondered if he was using his tongue correctly. “Ruthgar is keeping well away from any fighting and he’s well-guarded. No one can get anywhere near him from any side.”

“Drop a rock on his head then,” Deremer said.

It was a ridiculous idea, of course. Any rock an eagle dropped was unlikely to hit its target, or be heavy enough to do much damage if it did, and it would certainly attract the kind of attention Saker didn’t want.

“Nothing short of a grenade ball would do the job,” he muttered.
Grenade ball.
The words were familiar from somewhere in his past, but his memories were strange, interspersed with recollections of long hours of gazing at blue ocean far below, wrinkled with waves…

Deremer frowned. “I’ve heard of those. Gunpowder-filled balls they use in sea battles, right? I’ll talk to my gunner…”

“A grenade would be far too heavy for the eagle!”

“I’ll see what he says.”

The next time he returned to report, Deremer introduced him to his gunner, saying, “Makie here thinks he can solve the problem. He’s taken a ceramic vinegar jar from our supplies, stuffed it full of black powder and horse nails, popped a slow match of woven flax through the cork and tied a loop of string around the neck.” He held up the jar to show him, dangling it from one finger through the loop. “He reckons your bird could hold the string, no problem.” He weighted it in his hand. “Bit heavier than the fish that bird of yours catches, I suppose, but not much.”

“It’s a horrible idea.” The dizziness had gone, but as he stretched his fingers, he wondered why they felt odd and too short.

No feathers.

“I didn’t say it was nice. Will you do it?”

“We can try.” Agreement didn’t make him feel any better. How long before the flame reaches the charge?”

“Five minutes after it’s lit,” the man said cheerfully. “That’s long enough, isn’t it?”

S
orrel had been working in the area of the camp where makeshift platforms were built under a shade cover for the treatment of the wounded. There were fifteen healers, but she found plenty to do fetching and carrying, or washing wounds and cleaning up after a healer had finished working on a patient. If there was a lull, she sat with those who had already been attended to, offering water or comfort.

Midway through the afternoon, a soldier with a sword cut on his biceps said he thought the tide had turned. “If we can gut the two remaining bastard Foxes, we’ll have this fobbing battle won. Sir Herelt and some of his Sweepers are preparing to ride after one of the sods. His best mounted men, wax in their ears, riding down the slope at neckbreak speed. Vermin handlers are going to distract the sorcerer with an attack of wasps.” He shook his head in wonderment. “Dizzy-eyed scramble that’ll be, down that bitch of a slope. Ouch! Have a care, you mucking skin-stitcher! That’s my slubbering arm you’re squeezing!”

“And the last sorcerer? Who will get that one?” the healer asked, winding a bandage over the man’s wound.

The soldier nodded to Sorrel. “Your witan’s yellow-eyed witch-bird. It’s going to drop a fobbing grenade ball on his fobbing head.”

“Where is he?” she asked, all her fears emerging once more to battle her calm.

“Oh, they were heading up to the north, about a mile, on the ridge. Overlooking that stinking marsh.”

She left the tent and headed north at a jog.

It was easy enough to find them; all she had to do was follow the supply trail that snaked along the back of the ridge, just below the
crest, until she saw them. The gunsmith was there, about to light a slow match, the eagle was perched on an old tree stump and Saker had thrown down a thin pallet to lie on while his mind was with the bird. She wasn’t surprised by that; the more comfortable his body, the better his twinning to the sea eagle.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“You need someone to guard your body while you’re doing something as dangerous as this!”

“Who told you?”

“I think the whole camp knows by now.”

“It’s no different this time to all the other times I’ve flown.”

“Oh, yes, it is. You’re asking the bird to carry a grenade ball.” She squinted at what the gunsmith was doing. “Although it looks more like a vinegar jar to me.”

“It is. And thank you for coming. I’ll come straight back after I’ve checked if the grenade killed the bastard. We only get one chance, and it won’t be a huge explosion. He’s out in the open now, dealing with a wounded lot of Grey Lancers. I think he’s coercing them into not feeling the pain of their wounds before sending them back into the fray.”

“Do you really think shards of
pottery
will kill him?” she asked.

“It’s got horseshoe nails in it, mixed in with the black powder.”

“Oh. Suitably nasty, then.”

The slow match spluttered into life. Saker lay down on the pallet while the gunsmith, a little nervously, held out the looped cord to the eagle.

“Take care,” she whispered as the bird seized the loop and launched itself from the stump, its huge wings beating the air to gain height as it sailed out over the valley. It strained under the weight of its burden and had to labour to gain height. Sorrel’s mouth was dry until she saw it hit the first updraught of air and cease its flapping.

“One minute,” the gunsmith said. He was staring at his pocket watch.

She glanced at Saker’s body. He lay on his back with his eyes closed, unmoving, apparently composed. Only the rise and fall of his chest told her he was still alive.

“Two minutes.”

The bird was soon circling so high she could no longer see the grenade, let alone the glow of the slow match. She shuddered, remembering another time when someone had miscalculated and a ship had been blown to pieces…

“Three minutes.”

She watched the speck in the sky until it made a circuit at a lower level, and the next after that, lower and tighter. It had spotted its prey. Behind her, Saker did not move.

“Four minutes.”

After he left Sorrel, his rational thinking mind began to disintegrate, one tiny muddling piece at a time.

He was in the air again, looking down on the battlefield. There were fewer Grey Lancers still fighting on. He saw Sir Herelt and his horsemen, six of them all together, galloping down the steep slope, the mounts sliding on the loose soil, almost sitting on their rumps in that mad rush. One fell, toppling his rider. Grey Lancers pounced on the poor fellow and he went under, flailing, his sword wrenched from him, blood spurting, red and bold and salty.

Rot it, that was an eagle’s thought.

He could smell the burning wick he held in his claws. The bird’s claws. Fobbing grubbery, he was so confused. And he’d lost track of his count. Was it nearly five minutes since the eagle was swearing at him as it was lit, back in the camp? Well, swearing as only an eagle could, with a cold yellow look of pure hatred, as if he was the next meal.

Eagles knew nothing about time.

The bird was clutching the string and hating the smell of the slow match, and the hot red end burning towards the jar top. He – it – bent to look to see how far the match had burned. At a guess, three minutes.

Wings beating, steady, powerful.

Your last task, my beauty. After this, you fly free, I promise. Can you return to the warmth of the Summer Seas on your own? Do you know the way? Do you remember the splendour of the islands? Find a mate there, as magnificent as you are. Think of talons locked in courtship as you topple together through the air in your bonding
…

There he was, the Fox sorcerer, a glint of gold at his throat, the red fox emblem he wore. Standing, surrounded by half a dozen of his guards, watching the wounded men he’d just sent back into the fray. Frowning, as the men he’d sent to die did just that.

It’s over, Master Fox. Your father is dead. He might have told you how to live past your prime. But in so doing, he doomed you to an early death. You are too dangerous to be allowed to live
…

He took another look at the burning slow match. This would be difficult. How close to the sorcerer did it have to be? Would it roll? How long would it take to drop through the air? There was a wind blowing and it could affect the trajectory.

He urged the eagle lower.

Much lower.

Ruthgar looked up. Sensed the
sakti
he carried in the bambu pendant perhaps? Or alerted by the faded black smutch on his palm?

The sorcerer shouted something, but the words were snatched away on the wind, and Saker-eagle did not hear them.

Eagle eyes saw the archer who came out from under a canvas shelter in the camp with his crossbow in his hand. Human understanding acknowledged the danger.

Now
, Saker told the eagle.

Curved talons dropped the string.

They banked, man and raptor, wings beating deep, tail ruddering them away. Neither man nor eagle saw the jar explode, but the eagle’s vision saw both the tumbling jar and an archer releasing his arrow.

Excruciating pain shafted into Saker. He looked down and saw the arrow’s fletching protruding from his breast. And that was when he fell out of the sky.

Sorrel did not notice the grenade jar drop. All she saw was an explosion on the ground and the eagle toppling through the air, over and over, like a dead thing.

She didn’t see the bird hit the ground either. All her attention was on Saker. Screaming his name into his ear, seized his body in her arms, shaking him hard. He shuddered, his whole body spasming,
limbs jerking, as if the moment of the bird’s impact with the ground registered on his prone body.

His eyes flew open, and he uttered a cry of anguish. And then death. A blanking out of life as though his inner self had drawn a curtain across his gaze.

“NO!”

The word was wrenched from her on a wave of negation and violent rage. “Oh, no, Saker you won’t do that to me! Not to
us
.”

She seized him by the shoulders and shook him, shouting at him to come back. She slapped his face, hard, but his body was unresponsive and limp. When she put a hand under the lacings of his tunic to rest on his breast, she could not feel a heartbeat.

Around her neck there was one more wisp of feather, and around Saker’s yet another. One for Piper, one for Prince-regal Karel. If she used either to save him, then how would her choice reverberate through the ages? And if she didn’t – then the ternion died. Saker died.

Oh, Va.

She couldn’t make the choice. She
couldn’t.

Do nothing?

No—

Impossible. He had saved her life.

He had saved the ternion. And so must she—

Her hands fumbled with the bambu at her neck.

“Mistress—” the gunsmith began, shocked and hesitant.

“Stand aside,” a voice said in her ear, and there was a witchery healer kneeling on the other side of Saker’s body, and behind him, Perie. All her frenzy drained from her, leaving behind the coldness of desperation. She watched the healer make a fist of his hand and hit Saker hard on the breastbone, again and again, and all the while the glow of his witchery made whorls in the air around him.

She looked at Perie. “How did you know?” she whispered. She had never been so certain of anything in her life: Peregrine had brought the healer to where he was needed.

“The Way of the Oak,” he whispered, and nodded at the tree that shaded them. It was an oak, an ordinary oak, its leaves dappling the sunlight.

Saker jerked and gasped. His chest rose again as breathing started. When he opened his eyes, she slumped back on her heels, shivering, aware that her own heart was thumping so hard it hurt.

“Did – did we get the sorcerer?” Saker asked. He made no attempt to rise. Every muscle in his body ached. Every joint felt battered. Even his bones pained him.

“The grenade did explode,” the gunsmith said.

“He’s dead,” Perie said, his certainty reassuring. “So is the other one. We’ve done it. There are no more of them.”

He shuddered. “The eagle died. We
fell
, tumbling over and over. I can’t feel it anywhere.” He struggled to sit up, but Sorrel pushed him down again.

When his breathing steadied and he’d composed himself, he said quietly, “I promised him this was the last thing I would ask of him. That he could go home…” His voice trailed away.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“It wasn’t right, what I asked him to do. It wasn’t right.”

“No, perhaps not. But if sorcerers ruled here, would the sea eagles of Chenderawasi be safe?”

He lay still for a long while, then raised her fingers to his lips. “Thank you, Sorrel. I needed to hear that.”

Gerelda staggered with fatigue as she trailed up the slope away from the battlefield. Every muscle ached. Every tendon complained. Her fingers cramped around her swordhilt. For some reason she had the weapon in her hand, rather than in its sheath, but she was no longer certain why.

When she topped the rise, someone offered her water, and she took the demijohn and drank the lot. As she handed it back, she caught a glimpse of the valley in the light of the late afternoon sun and she shuddered. It was a place of the dead, taken over now by the cut-throats and the scavengers and the corpse-pickers. Ravens and crows and rats. Human and animal. She wanted no part of it. She stumbled on to the camp.

Her thoughts were sludge and stirred only weakly, but she didn’t care. She had no desire except rest. When she reached the tent she’d
shared, she was barely conscious. Perie was there, and he levered the sword out of her hand and pushed her down on to her pallet. “They are dead, the sorcerers,” he said. She closed her eyes as he pulled off her boots and undid her sword belt.

Dimly in the distance she heard him speak. “Saker and Sorrel and Ardhi are fine.” Comforted, she tucked the words away for thinking about later; right now the information they contained melted into meaningless mush in her brain.

It was morning when she woke. Someone was shaking her and she told them to go hang themselves.

“Gerelda, no one has seen Perie since last night.” Sorrel’s voice.

She opened one eye and saw her sword belt lying next to her, with the sword in the scabbard. She pulled it out, glanced at the blade and shoved it back, all without getting up. “He cleaned my sword,” she said, and closed her eye again.

“He’s nowhere to be found,” Sorrel said. “He didn’t sleep here. And he left his spiker behind, on his pallet.”

She sat up, both eyes snapping open. Perie never went anywhere without his spiker. He even slept wearing it. A wave of cold swept over her skin from her head to her bare feet. “No,” she said, but she wasn’t even sure what she was denying. “He told me last night when I came back to camp late yesterday that the last sorcerers were dead and you were all right.”

She pulled her blade fully out of the sheath. It was not just clean; it had been oiled as well, although he knew better than to sharpen it. That was something she always did herself. “He knows he doesn’t need the spiker any more if all the sorcerers are dead. He’ll be all right. He will have gone to that oak of his to pray.” She scrambled to her feet. “Um, I’ve got to piss.”

She washed at the camp troughs on her way back to her tent, grimacing at the blood caked on to her filthy clothes. Sorrel poured her a drink and Saker handed her a plate of food. She took both gratefully and sat on the log outside to eat, not caring what she was consuming. Her last meal was already a day in the past. “We did win, didn’t we?” she asked, her mouth full.

“Yes,” Saker said. “Perie told us he couldn’t feel a sorcerer anywhere. The Grey Lancers laid down their weapons, those who were still
alive. It didn’t help them. Deremer’s Dire Sweepers killed them all anyway.”

“I saw. That’s when I left the battlefield. I couldn’t stomach any more.”

“No,” he agreed.

She frowned, wondering at the pain in him. “We won. So what’s wrong, then?”

“The eagle died,” he said.