Of fire and ash, p.29
Of Fire and Ash, page 29
Lowen scuttled toward thicker jungle, half dragging an Eliamite in a sand-colored overcoat that flapped at his heels, a soldier in pursuit. Rafi raced to catch up, arms and spear pumping, as Lowen turned to block a sword with his spear. It cracked and split in two.
The soldier raised his sword again. Hesitated, sensing Rafi’s approach.
Rafi screamed Delmar’s name as he rammed his spear like a harpoon up into the unarmored patch beneath the soldier’s arm. He stood there, panting, as bloody spittle burst from the man’s lips and his breath expelled in a groan.
The toppling weight dragged the spear from Rafi’s hands.
Slowly, he turned, as if in a fog. Freed prisoners scrambled past, scattering into the trees. Those still on the line yanked at it, weighed down by their slain. Rebels screamed and fell. Rapid strike, rapid retreat—that had been the plan. Instead, their attack had been ragged, disorganized, and the soldiers were predators trained to isolate and surround and kill.
Run, Rafi, the ghost whispered.
But he had had enough of running. He was a Tetrani, was he not?
Running from it did not make it untrue. He had slain a scadtha and killed a man. He would stand. Rafi seized the fallen soldier’s sword, planted his feet, and as his blood stirred within him, loosed the ancient war cry of his ancestors.
It tore from his lips as a roar.
It raged and gnashed its teeth.
It parted the fight and silence fell in its wake.
Soldiers stilled and stared at him, stunned by his use of the old Nadaarian tongue. Few understood it anymore. Fewer still spoke it. But these were not ordinary infantry or levied foreign troops. These were royal guard. They knew the war cry of the Tetrani.
They knew him.
With a yell, the last prisoners broke free and joined the rebels, falling upon the confused soldiers, beating them with hammered blows, crushing them with the weight of numbers. Rafi’s voice fled. He lurched forward, hand raised. To stop them. To join them. He did not know. But it was too late, the deed already done. The soldiers lay in tangled heaps, their blood watering the earth, and his secret died with them.
Rafi let the sword fall and sank to his knees. He did not shake but everything inside him felt shaken, like a boat smashed ashore until it was torn apart.
“What was that?” a voice demanded behind him. “How did you make them stop?”
He took a breath, sensing eyes shifting toward him and rebels crowding around with hostile expressions. “I . . . told them a riddle. They were waiting for the answer.” That did not seem to satisfy them, but they scattered when Moc burst through their ranks and flung a log-like arm around his neck, clapping him so hard on the back that his teeth rattled.
“That is for saving my brother!”
Rafi winced, rubbing his neck.
“My brother has strange ways of showing his gratitude,” Lowen called out, approaching with the long-legged Eliamite trailing behind him. The man had eyes so pale they nearly matched his sand-colored overcoat, minus the jagged spray of blood across the front.
“Not mine,” the Eliamite said, noticing Rafi’s focus. He raised bloodied hands and eyed them with distaste, then scanned for somewhere to wipe them.
“What happened back there?” Moc demanded, crossing his burly arms.
Lowen shifted uncomfortably. “Once I freed him, I figured I would free the others too, but some idiots weren’t content to wait their turn.”
Moc shook his head in disbelief. “You’re the idiot, brother. You nearly got all of us killed. You and Nef make a fine pair, you do.” He turned a suspicious eye on the informant who had gingerly shrugged out of his stained coat and was now vigorously scrubbing his hands on a clean corner. “This vital information had better be worth it, Eliamite.”
“His name is Yath Ha’Nor,” Lowen put in.
“Fine. Yath, what can you tell me?”
“Much I do not understand.” Yath straightened and balled up the ruined garment, fingertips still leaving rusty stains on the damp cloth. He discarded it and nudged it away with his foot. “Not yet. But perhaps others will.” And Rafi could have sworn Yath’s eyes flickered briefly to him as he began to speak.
“What about knives, Rafi?”
Caught off guard by the question, Rafi looked up at Lowen, who scaled the staircase to the second cavern above him, and almost missed a step, prompting Moc and the others behind to roar in laughter. The five-day return hike had not diminished their victory-fueled spirits, and so it was a boisterous crew that had delivered Lowen’s report to Umut and now ascended to the kitchens to celebrate. “What about them?”
“Could you juggle them?”
On the march that morning, Rafi had amused his companions by demonstrating his skill on everything from saga fruit to fish heads. It had seemed innocent enough, but the others had been dreaming up increasingly wild challenges for him since. Knives, however, seemed extreme . . . and a touch too reminiscent of Sahak. “Why would I want to?”
“You said you could juggle anything.”
“Anything!” Moc caught up as they turned onto the bridge and slung an arm over Rafi’s shoulder. “What about—” He broke off. Nef stood on the center of the bridge ahead. His stare raked across them, and Rafi couldn’t deny a twinge of satisfaction at the sight of his nemesis with two black eyes and a basket of kitchen refuse in his arms.
“Nef!” Moc shouted, flinging his arms wide. “We are celebrating! Join us.”
Nef ignored him and stalked away in the opposite direction.
“Maybe he didn’t hear you . . .” Lowen smirked.
Rafi was fairly certain Cael of the Sky-Above, Cihana of the Earth-Below, and Ches-Shu of the Deeps-Beneath had heard Moc, and Nef needed no prodding to hate him.
Moc scowled. “Oh, net your tongue.” But his humor recovered by the time they entered the kitchen alcove and caught the familiar wave of heavy spices and oven warmth across their faces. “Saffa! Your finest wine for the hero of the hour!”
Saffa discarded the enormous paddle she had been using to stir soup and began to set out food and drink. Rafi tried to help, but she waved him to a seat, and one did not argue with Saffa, so he found himself wedged among the others as they feasted and swilled saga wine and roared with laughter. In exchange for fewer scowls on the return hike, Rafi had traded in jokes, burying his sickness over the raid and his part in it. Now such humor felt forced, and when Lowen stole Saffa’s knives and sent them spinning across the table toward him, he feigned panic for laughs and seized the opportunity to flee.
Saffa was waiting for him outside the alcove. She pressed a bowl of dried simba fruit into his hands with a nod at the stairs. For the sea-demon? Since he hadn’t been able to drive it away, he had built an enclosure on the gorge floor to keep it from trampling the rebels’ crops or following him on his mission. He’d coaxed it inside with moss and darted out again, leaving it trapped and screaming. He’d felt a traitor then and now, as he emerged from the lowest cavern into twilight and tried to catch its bright blue eyes over the woven rattan fence.
The colt did not look at him.
Rafi raised his voice. “Still mad at me?”
“What gave it away?”
Iakki? He found the boy perched atop the fence, chin in his hands. It had been weeks since they had spoken, and part of Rafi wondered if it was for the best. If Iakki, like Zorrad, might not benefit from his absence. He slipped inside the enclosure, holding the bowl up in explanation. “Saffa sent fruit for the colt.”
“It doesn’t eat fruit,” Iakki scoffed. “Sea-demons like seaweed and fish and stuff. Saffa knows it too. She’s sent down scraps before.”
“Oh. You want some then?” Rafi offered the bowl but a whiskered nose knocked it from his hands. Snuffling, the colt lipped the scattered fruit up from the ground and seemed to be enjoying it too, despite Iakki’s claim.
“Not anymore I don’t.”
Iakki started to climb down, but Rafi swung up beside him. “Cousin—”
“You’re not my cousin. You’re . . . what . . . a prince? You shouldn’t even have that.” He jabbed at the bead strand still knotted in Rafi’s hair.
“Look, I didn’t want to hurt you or—”
“You got Torva killed!”
The pang of that truth stole his breath. “If I could fix it—”
“You could bring me back!” Iakki gripped his arm, pleading. “Back to Zorrad.”
“Bored with cliff climbing and goat chasing already?” It was a lame attempt at humor, and Iakki pulled back, eyes glistening wet.
“I want to go home.”
Rafi hesitated. Only a second, but it was a second too long. Iakki jumped down and ran away, and Rafi did not call him back. What more could he say? Sighing, he dropped beside the grazing colt and scratched at the scales running down its throat. Was it the waning light, or had their color dulled while he was gone? “At least I can still talk to you.”
Chewing, the colt raised its head and snorted down his arm.
“Some spirits are not meant to be tamed,” a warm, rugged voice said.
Rafi glanced up to see the Hanonque leader emerge from the streamward side of the cavern and come toward him at a surprisingly fast clip on his crutch. He wiped his arm on his trousers. “Some things were born to be free.”
Umut’s eyes glittered with mirth as he rested his elbows on the fence. “I was speaking of your cousin. This beast is another matter altogether.” Rafi’s face must have revealed his surprise because Umut chuckled. “Soldonian warriors wield such steeds in battle. Never heard of others doing so, but then I’ve never heard of others bonding one.”
“Bonding? Not so sure we have so much as a mutual understanding.”
Umut laughed his deep, choking laugh, but trailed off, expression turning grave. “Speaking of understanding, what did you think of the Eliamite’s report?”
Most, Rafi had not understood: rumors of a new harbor on the Alon coast, of more Eliamites seized by raids, of increased demands for labor, and of talk of the Center of the World—something he had been taught referred to Cetmur, capital of Nadaar, though Yath claimed it meant something else, something hidden. No news of Sahak, so the only real matter of interest to him had been sighting the royal guard, which was probably of less importance to Umut.
“Not sure I know what any of it means.”
Umut’s expression narrowed thoughtfully. “It means the world is changing more swiftly than I thought. We must make our move soon. I am working on a plan still, but I do think your time could be well spent here.” He nodded toward the sea-demon. “Think of the surprise element such a steed could give you on a raid if the legends are true.”
Ride the sea-demon? Could such a thing be possible?
Rafi rubbed his face. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
Umut’s sea-blue eyes twinkled. “I might be able to help with that. Drove a team of horses once—not like that, grant you—but how much harder can riding a sea-demon be?”
“Are you asking me?”
“Should be simple enough.” Umut quirked a smile. “Like falling off a log.”
The colt’s ears twitched, and Rafi had a sneaking suspicion it could understand them. “Yeah, I’ve a feeling you’ve got the falling part right.”
THIRTY-SIX: CERIDWEN
Both seariders and riverriders gain increased lung capacity and the ability to withstand significant underwater pressures, enabling them to launch submerged attacks while their steeds use the force of streams or waves to propel themselves in aquatic combat.
On a dune washed in moonlight, Ceridwen let Cenyon’s salt-tinged air sink into her lungs to cleanse the taint of scorched flesh. Below, warriors ate and slept and tended gear while the soft song of the night riders rose on the breeze. Beyond, scouts patrolled both dunes and sky for signs of the enemy, though Iona’s pursuit had left few survivors. On her return, Iona had delivered the death count: two hundred and eleven of Cenyon, sixty-one Outriders, countless Nadaari.
Even the mightiest of her ancestors would have found pride in such a victory. When diminished to numbers on a scale, human lives could seem little indeed. But she knew the void a single loss left behind, like the shock of destruction following an earthhewn charge. Heart and hope shattered into ash and dust.
She thought of Bair.
She thought of the king, her father.
She thought of the imperial soldiers who had sailed lusting for conquest in this kingdom and a dozen others, of the priests who lashed them on in pursuit of the Dominion of Murloch, and of Emperor Lykier seated on his throne amidst the thousand waterfalls of Cetmur. They had brought this horror upon her land. Would that flames might take them all.
Sand crunched behind her. Hand resting on her sabre, she turned to see Lady Telweg, armor-clad and glinting silver in the moonlight. Ceridwen had sent her leathers for repair along with her saddle, leaving her only a loose tunic, leggings, and Finnian’s cloak. Yet she could have been crowned and enthroned and still felt unworthy before Telweg’s gaze. Only from the back of her flaming steed could she feel equal.
But Mindar grazed below, and the war-chief stared at her in silence, face pale and impassive as the moon itself. The wind crept through the cloak’s loose weave while the passing moments seemed to crawl across her skin, and still no words came.
“Here, child.” Telweg held up a pouch of dried meat and fruit. “Eat.”
Her voice was neither condescending nor kind, but it bore a hint of the dragging weariness Ceridwen felt, so she forced herself to eat, though the food tasted like ash and stuck in her throat.
Eventually, Telweg spoke again. “We battle an empire with standing armies and levies supplied by conquest. It is small wonder our forces wear thin.” Her voice sounded thin as well, stripped of pretense. Unusual since Telweg wore composure like an armored hide. “So long as they possess our ports to receive transport ships, we will not win this war. A hundred times, I have demanded the war-chiefs muster their hosts to our aid, and still, they have not come.”
“I have come—”
“You are not enough.”
She never had been. Not enough to satisfy her father, save her brother, or earn the respect of the war-chiefs. “Yet I am here,” Ceridwen said. “The war-chiefs may fear treachery but we must be united. Kilmark and Ondri’s betrayal continues to cost us each day we stand apart.”
“Kilmark and Ondri? Oh, it goes deeper than that. Did it never occur to you to wonder how Cenyon had no warning of the invasion when seariders patrol our waters? They were all slaughtered. Or so I must assume since no trace has been found. Nadaar’s spies are either far more effective or had far more aid than we thought.”
Ceridwen’s blood chilled. She had assumed the two chieftains’ treachery had been a response to the invasion, an attempt to curry favor with the presumed victors by betraying their own. But this meant it had been planned. “I cannot fathom how any could do such a thing.”
“No more difficult, I suppose, than abandoning one’s kin to die.” Telweg’s eyes were dark pools frosted with ice. “But you ask the wrong question. Ask not how but why, and you shall have your answer. For example, why do I cast your brother’s death in your face, why do I speak so to you, why—”
“You test me.”
“Perhaps. And perhaps I merely despise you.”
This time, Ceridwen expected the blow. “And yet, you need me. You said it yourself, our strength wanes while our enemy’s is renewed. We must unite if we are to make them spend such a price in blood that they rue the day they sailed for our coasts and—”
“Why are you here, child?” There was a sad, almost mocking twist to Telweg’s lips. “I received tidings of your claim. Have you come for my oath? You will not get it. I have seen little in the blood of Lochrann worthy of rule. Your father was a strong king once, but your brother’s death destroyed him. It weakened the seven chiefdoms for Nadaar’s attack. For that, I hold you responsible.”
Brutal, relentless, those words shattered the steel forged around Ceridwen’s heart, exposing the void inside. “I did not kill Bair.” Her voice seemed swallowed by the night, and yet, the truth was both flint and steel casting sparks to warm and strengthen her. “I did not kill him,” she repeated, louder. “But for his death, I will spend the rest of my life seeking atonement.”
The cold steel of her sabre still filled her palm, marking it a blade oath.
“Yes.” Telweg’s voice broke soft as the wind over the salt-grass. “You will. If you would rule, you must know the responsibility. Countless lives rest upon your choices.”
“And upon yours, Lady Telweg.” She released her grip, meeting the war-chief’s gaze with no weapon but conviction. “My claim stands, but I will not demand your oath. Not now. If our nation is to survive, we must change tactics together.”
“You have a strategy in mind?”
“I do.” The compelling words came, as if breathed into her mind by her brother. “Do not fight to reclaim Cenyon yet. Fight to contain the coast. No supplies or forces dispatched inland can be allowed to reach the Nadaari. With your ayeds and mine fighting in unison, we can leave them stranded, harassed, and starving in their own camp.”
“Before that, they will break through and lay waste to the countryside.”
“And we will yield before them, but they will control only the earth beneath their feet.” The heat of battle filled her again, warming her limbs to action, and for a moment, she thought she saw an answering light flicker to life in the war-chief’s eyes.
Then Telweg shook her head. “You ask too much of Cenyon. You would have us regard our land as lost and ignore the suffering of our own. I will not have it. I cannot.”
Her breath left her in a rush.
Ceridwen opened her mouth to explain Astra’s visit, to reveal the discovery of the manuscripts, to beg if it would convince the war-chief to reconsider. But the words suffocated in her throat. They, like her, would never be enough.
