Healer's Ruin (8 page)

Chalos shivered. He did not like to think of such a vast and forbidding place as having anything to do with priests and deities.
What sort of god would visit a place like this, and what kind of priest would want to stay here?
He pushed it from his mind and sat down, pressing his palms to the fire.

'I'd like to explore,' she continued. 'But I do not think there will be time. No matter, when the land is conquered, we can return here at our leisure and plunder its secrets.'

He grunted. There was nothing here he wanted to discover. That much he knew instinctively. Some magic was still fizzing within his bones and it clashed with the atmosphere of the place. He eyed the huge hole in the structure.

'Some secrets should remain buried,' he said. 'There are enough wonders out in the open.'

His eyes rested on her face as he spoke.

'Yes,' she said, unblinkingly meeting his gaze. 'There are.'

He woke with a start. The dawn was still trying to break through the canopy and the camp was still mostly quiet with just a few Krune trudging to and fro, with the odd Dauwark looming behind black battlements. The healer's body ached and his arm, fixed under Samine's head, had gone numb. Nestling back down, he cradled her, studying her sleeping face. She murmured as his fingers traced a line along her cheekbone, her jaw, her lips.

Claws scraped on stone and he turned to see Sixt approaching with caution, tongue flicking irritably, eyes on his mistress.

'Sorry,' said Chalos. 'She's taken for now.'

Sixt blinked and sidled off, long nails clacking on the stone.

'I think you've upset him,' a voice sounded, behind his eyes.

He peered across the battlement to where Mysa was perched, one wing over her head, long beak picking tentatively at the healed-up wound.

Chalos grinned and gently eased his arm out from under Samine's head. Then he rose jerkily, threw on his robe and walked barefoot to where the crow sat.

'Mysa, I cannot tell you how relieved I am to hear your voice again.' He marvelled at her shiny black feathers. 'You have regained your lustre!'

'And you have some colour in your cheeks, Chalos! The red cheeks of the triumphant suitor!'

Chuckling, the healer hoisted himself up onto the battlement wall and sat next to the bird. Over the wall, the Dallian Woodland stretched, a dense wall of gnarled trees.

'The Dread Spear and I have become better acquainted,' he replied sardonically. 'Joys are fleeting in this awful place. One must make the most of them.'

'Quite so,' the bird replied. 'You have become wiser in my absence. I look forward to hearing more of your sage advice.'

'Your near-death experience hasn't purged you of your sarcasm, I see.'

Mysa cackled and fluttered her wings before stretching them out as far as they would go. A satisfied moan escaped her.

'So Jolm has found the Gilt Plates,' she said. 'Does he know what befell them on the plain?'

Chalos nodded.

'A being called the Wielder attacked them.'

Mysa hopped from foot to foot.

'What is this 'Wielder', Chalos? Some sort of monster?'

'A mage, I think. A Riln slinger of unusual potency.' He sighed and pulled his bare feet up to squat cross-legged on the black stone battlements. 'The Riln we have encountered here seem to talk of him as if he is some sort of hero, or figurehead. We haven't encountered him yet, but I'm sure he's out there, on the plain.'

A rumbling came from the west, high in the mountains. It sounded as though a giant anvil was being rolled down a wooden staircase. There was even a flicker of light, between the leaves of the canopy, mingling with the tentative rays of dawn.

Samine sat bolt-upright, he neat breasts bare. A frown creased her face.

'Another storm,' said Chalos. 'Over the mountains.'

'It's not a storm,' Mysa said. 'Gods and bones, dear healer, that's the sound of battle!'

Samine stood up, her lithe nakedness drawing the healer's attention from the crow's words. His eyes roved from the patch of dark hair between her long thighs to her face, which was impassive as she hurriedly gathered her clothing. After pulling on her garments and robes she tied back her hair with a leather band and walked over to join the healer, hugging herself in the cold.

'How long has it been raging?' she asked.

'It just started,' said Chalos. 'Barely a moment ago.'

Sixt swept across the floor and up Samine's body to rest on her shoulder. He had a beetle in his mouth and he crunched it, mechanically, his eyes peering in the direction of the tumult.

'That's magic,' the Dread Spear said. 'It sounds like thunder, but it's magic. Conjuration, probably. Or disintegration. Slamming the air together, or tearing it apart.'

'She's right,' said Mysa. 'The Ten Plains King is embroiled, much to his chagrin. He had expected to sneak up on the Ruin, having left the Krune, the Gilt Plates and Tankanis to draw the enemy into the centre of the plains. But the Wielder saw him coming.'

'What are you talking about?' Chalos asked. 'The King is to the south, far behind us. We're the vanguard.'

Samine looked at him.

'Your bird is talking to you, yes?' Samine asked, unable to hear what Mysa had said. 'What does she say?'

'She thinks the King himself is in the mountains,' Chalos said, shaking his head in bafflement. 'I think the fever may still have her.'

'Rudeness! Such casual disdain for my hard-earned wisdom!' said Mysa, flexing her claws. 'I saw it, Chalos. I saw it the day I took flight through the canopy. I had caught the scent of magic coming from the mountains and my curiosity got the better of me. I flew high, almost to the clouds, and saw on the jagged grey peaks of the west column after column of men, wagons and beasts, gleaming and glittering in the sun beneath a parade of bright banners. The Skull-strippers to the fore, with hordes of Rovann. Then behind, the Ektan, furtive in their turquoise cloaks. And further back still the shimmering pennants of the Fenc. Oh, Chalos, the King marches alright, but not behind us. No, he rides parallel, up high, in a bid to outwit this kingdom's defenders.'

More magical power rumbled in the west.

'So who rides in our wake?' Chalos asked. 'Where is our support to come from?'

Mysa cocked her head.

'The Duke, and his other lieutenant, Agryce. They wait behind us. When I took to the skies, I could still see them, out on the basin.'

Samine touched the healer's knee, drawing his attention.

'What does she say?' she asked.

Chalos told Samine what the bird had told him and she listened in silence, her eyes wide and trembling.

'Gods and bones,' she said after ruminating for a moment or two. 'We are a mere diversion! The Ten Plains King has thrown us to the wolves in order to outflank the Riln.'

Chalos waved a dismissive hand.

'It's nonsensical,' he declared. 'The Gilt Plates are the King's finest shock troops, and the Black Talon his most feared force of warriors. It would be madness to cast such elites to their doom. And what of Tankanis, a Flint Wizard? Was he a mere diversion too?'

Samine leaned onto the battlements, her small chin resting on her crossed arms. Sixt scurried from her shoulder onto the black rock and cocked his head, listening to the fracas in the mountains.

'Think about it, Chalos,' she said in a detached voice. 'Jolm was sent into the Dallian Woodland without any real idea how difficult the traversing would be. The Duke told him as little as possible about this place. And the Gilt Plates had marched onto the plains before we had even left the Doyu Basin. They were utterly exposed, even with a Flint Wizard leading them. And then there's Mysa... shot down by a Phaeron arrow. And why? To blind us. To deny us the chance to scry ahead. To turn us into a blundering mass of cattle, ripe for slaughter!'

Chalos did not want to believe any of it. Until now, he had believed himself part of the army of the Ten Plains King, a small cog in a vast machine rolling slowly north over the empire of the Riln, seizing it piece by piece. But if Mysa and Samine were right, the king had cast them into dire peril just to buy the rest of the army a tactical advantage.

More thunder and noise from the east, shriller this time, scattered his thoughts.

Well, you royal bastard, it sounds like your strategy failed. Is the Wielder there now, facing you, even as we draw the main forces of the Riln away from your column?

'So what do we do?' he asked, resignation hollowing his tone to a hoarse whisper.

Samine shrugged.

'Ask the bird,' she said simply.

'It is simple, Chalos,' said Mysa. 'We show Jolm the Phaeron arrowhead, proving that the King's own men shot me down. Then we tell him that the rest of the army is marching through the mountains, taking a road we didn't know existed, and that we have nought behind us but the Duke and Agryce.'

'And then?'

'Then we help him formulate a strategy that will ensure that we don't all get butchered in this arboreal nightmare.'

Chalos narrowed his eyes at the bird.

'I keep hearing the word 'we', Mysa.'

'Hmm.Yes,' the crow shrugged her inky black shoulders. 'Well, I didn't want you to feel that this was all resting on your shoulders.'

'But it is, right?'

The crow cawed in an interpretation of laughter.

'Great,' Chalos said. 'That's just great.'

The day wasn't even an hour old but already the force was ready to move. But it did not move immediately. The presence of the Gilt Plates had sent a shockwave through the pecking order of the Black Talon and everyone seemed to need their orders spelling out to them. It seemed that the mere presence of the Dauwarks reminded the Krune that they were not at the top of the food chain after all.

As Chalos walked through the camp, he saw how the enormous footprints of the Dauwark obliterated those of the Krune. True, the purple-skinned men towered over even the tallest Rovann but the Dauwarks were larger by an order of magnitude. In their armour, they were like mobile fortresses, clanking and thudding through the Riln kingdom, killing and crushing with imperious ease. 

Until, of course, they had met the Wielder.

Chalos found himself wanting to know more about this Riln slinger. Why did he have access to offensive magic whilst the rest of his kind knew only illusion and trickery? And how had he become so powerful that he could swat the Gilt Plates aside and still have enough stamina left to take on Tankanis?

Or had he simply slaughtered them all in one sudden and lurid conflagration before the Flint Wizard could even raise a brow?

This Wielder must be a terrible creature. I pray that our paths will never cross. He may be their deliverer, their hero, but to us, he is a fiend and a monster.

Casting an eye eastwards, but as ever unable to see the mountains through the dense green canopy of the Dallian Woodland, the healer thought about the Ten Plains King and the bulk of his army, and what they had encountered up there.

Is the Wielder up there with them, or down here with us? Does he fight a running battle with the flesh-masked, screaming slayers of the Sanul, and the accursed whisperers of the Ektan, as Phaeron arrows swarm over him, or does he wait on the plains to finish Dolga and his warriors?

Only time would tell.

He found Jolm and Dolga squatted on hacked-up parts of tree-trunk around what had once been a merry fire. The lieutenant was poking the ashes with a long, gnarled stick as the Dauwark spoke to him in a low voice.

Clearing his throat, Chalos offered a rough approximation of a salute. The fixings of Jolm's helm creaked as he looked up and Dolga stopped talking and turned, the plates of his armour groaning.

'Lieutenant,' the healer said. 'I have some, ah, intelligence for you.'

The corporal was hovering over Jolm's shoulder. He glanced at the healer and smirked, showing sharp teeth. Jolm said something under his breath to the corporal who nodded curtly and swaggered off.

'Come, sit, little Rovann!' came Jolm's hollow boom. 'Captain Dolga, this is the healer that put your men back together in the Domed Hall.'

Dolga's wrinkled reptilian face broke into a neat smile.

'Healer, it is an honour. Your handiwork was inspected and found to be of an excellent standard. Thanks to you, we are now able to face what lies ahead.'

'It's no problem, really,' said Chalos politely. 'Lieutenant Jolm, I have to tell you something. No,' he reached into the folds of his robes. 'I have to
show
you something.'

He took out the arrowhead and stepped forward. Jolm did not rise. Instead, he merely putt out a gauntleted hand. Chalos placed the sliver of metal onto the palm and stepped back, dropping his head in a show of deference.

'A fine specimen!' Jolm said, turning the arrowhead over and studying it. 'An inscription! What exquisite script!' His helm turned to face the healer. 'What is its significance?'

'That's from a Phaeron arrow, lieutenant,' Chalos said.

'Yes?' said Jolm.

'It's the arrow that took my bird down.'

Dolga growled and leaned forward, placing a massive hand on a boulder-like knee.

'Where would the Riln get Phaeron arrows?' the Dauwark said, his free hand rubbing at his chin. 'The answer is, they could not.'

'Indeed,' said Jolm. In a show of contempt he cast the arrowhead aside into the undergrowth. 'Which means it came from a Phaeron bow.'

'They're up on the mountains, to the east,' said Chalos. 'The Ten Plains King and the rest of the army. That storm, the other night – and the one this morning – was not thunder and lightening, but magic. They're fighting the Wielder up there.'

The two leaders of men were staring at each other, dark grille to beady black eyes. Unless Chalos had known better, he could have sworn that they were communicating by thought alone. Here were two veteran warriors, officers in the army of the greatest monarch who had ever breathed. Perhaps they could communicate with silence. Perhaps there was no need for communication at all. Soldiers worked on instinct born of experience and conditioning, after all. When peril lurched into view, soldiers moved as one, unconsciously, like a flock of birds wheeling in the air.

'I knew it! We're a diversion,' grumbled Dolga. His great head turned and spat a strand of grey phlegm out of the little circle of chopped up trees. 'The King used the Gilt Plates as a mere diversion!'

There was incredulity in his voice as well as rage. This was fearsome enough, especially in a creature so large, but what scared Chalos even more was Jolm's reaction. The Krune sat silent and unmoving, his expression hidden behind that horrible steel mask.

'Lieutenant,' Chalos said, finding the silence intolerable. 'All that rides at our heels is Duke Elas and the Tarukaveri. Nothing else will come to relieve us. With luck, the King's host will ride down to the plains, and we can meet with them there. But until then...'

'Until then?' Dolga said, his arms swinging through the air in a gesture of frustration. Each bicep was as big as a pavarine's gut, each forearm as long as one of the sherdling's prodding-spears. 'Who knows what waits for us on the plains? We may find ourselves fending off the bulk of the Riln army as the King's retinue saunters its way down from the mountains.' He shook his head. 'No, we must send word back to the rest of the Krune, wait for them to catch up and then march as one. The Krune Entire, with the Gilt Plates at their side.'

Chalos liked the sound of the Dauwark's plan but Jolm continued to brood in silence.

'Sir,' said Chalos. 'What do you want to do?'

The Krune looked first to the healer and then to the Captain before casting his stick down with a harsh expletive. When he rose, his twisted legs unfurling beneath him, his Baldaw mesh slithered as ring tumbled over ring.

'We march for the Ruin,' he said. 'Immediately. And if anything waits for us on the plain, we push through it.'

'But lieutenant – ' Chalos started.

All it took to silence Chalos was the hiss that escaped from the front of Jolm's demonic helm.

'Very well, lieutenant,' said Dolga, rising from his seat like a hillock breaking free of the earth. 'I trust in your judgement. We are shock troops after all, and move faster forward than in reverse.'

Jolm nodded with satisfaction and then turned away from the campfire, doubtless about to head to where his bedroll lay somewhere amongst the men of the Black Talon. Chalos mustered his courage and dashed over to him.

'Lieutenant,' he said, keeping his voice low. Showing dissent was one thing, doing it loudly was quite another. 'The last time southern warriors took to the plains, Tankanis led them. A Flint Wizard, one of the finest mages in existence. And with him, Dolga's famed Gilt Plates. What they encountered broke them. Where is Tankanis now? He is dust! Where are the rest of the Gilt Plates?' He pressed his hands together and touched his chin, looking up imploringly at the towering Krune. 'Please, lieutenant, I do not think there is glory in your plan. If we follow in the footsteps of Takanis, we risk a rendezvous in the grave!'

Jolm growled under his breath. In the giant helm, the sound seemed to come from some considerable distance, travelling over dark stones from a place of unadulterated malice.

'Worry about your bird, slinger,' he snapped. 'Make sure she's fit to fly, for when we break the cover of these damned trees we will be exposed, but so will whatever awaits us. Her eyes will watch over us, all the way to the Ruin.' The demonic face inched forward, incrementally. 'Don't worry, Rovann. I will show you enough glory to last you a lifetime. Though I cannot promise how long that lifetime will be.'

With that, he turned and strode off towards the densely packed campsites of the Black Talon, his gait weirdly graceful. Crestfallen, Chalos watched him go, his arms hanging limply by his sides.

'Wise words,' said Dolga, who clearly possessed excellent hearing, having not moved from his position by the old fire. 'But you should have faith in that man. He is Tarukataru, and leads this force for a reason.'

'Do you think he is right, Captain?' Chalos asked.

'I think you are bold, slinger, for there are men here who would would bite you in half for arguing with the lieutenant!' The thin, bloodless smile returned to the wrinkled reptilian face. 'I will follow Jolm and my men will follow with me. That is all you need to know.'

'But don't you outrank him?' Chalos pressed, desperation making him suddenly fearless around even the hulking Dauwark.

Dolga laughed, his gigantic torso quivering, causing plates to scrape together noisily.

'You think a Krune of the Tarukataru would take notice of a Dauwark? I could be emperor of all the world and these purple bastards would still ignore my every word!' His eyes narrowed. 'This is not a question of rank.'

'Then what is it about, glory? Do you and Jolm seek death in the field, to prove your mettle?' The healer's frustration spiked. 'Are we all to die to make your names great?'

That proved too much for the Dauwark. With a lunge that was lightening-quick the Captain hurled himself forward, crushing Chalos beneath a mass of muscle and gilt-sheened steel. A grey, scaly jaw, large enough to turn the healer's head into pulp, hovered inches from him, its bitter breath on his cheek.

'The Gilt Plates are renowned across the world, whelp!' the Captain said, flecks of spittle striking the healer's face. 'We need prove nothing to no-one! Why, it is said that when a god meets the Gilt Plates, it is he who needs to prove his worth to us!' The eyes became razor-thin slits. 'And precious few gods would manage it.'

'I'm sorry,' Chalos stammered. 'I meant no disrespect!'

For a moment he feared that the Captain was going to kill him either by crushing the life from his body or biting his head free from his shoulders. But a moment later, and to his surprise and relief, he was freed from beneath the enormous warrior as Dolga drew himself upright.

'Pah!' the Dauwark said, dusting off his golden armour. 'You think yourself so very wise, little Rovann. But you underestimate Jolm and you underestimate me.'

'Your might, or your wisdom?'

The words were Samine's. She was standing at the edge of the clearing, a hard look on her face. Dolga froze. His whole body tensed, his fingers itching close to the wide-bladed knife at his belt.

He doesn't trust mages,
Chalos reckoned.
Especially ones that can kill without laying a finger. If she makes a wrong move, he'll murder her.

With that thought ringing in his head, Chalos stepped forward and waved a hand at Samine to be silent, but she scowled at him, hands curling into fists. The tension was thick as pavarine steak. Then, just as that tension threatened to spill into violence, the Dauwark threw his head back and laughed, loud and long.

'Such spirit in the Rovann of Jolm's host!' he marvelled. 'Well, I hope you show this same passion when the foe is at our throats, eh?' He gestured to a group of Gilt Plates who were gathered a few metres away, hoisting backpacks full of supplies and weapons onto their shoulders. They saluted by cracking their knuckles against their breastplates. Dolga started to walk towards them but paused, cocking his head.

'You think we should wait for the Duke and Agryce, don't you, Rovann?' the Captain asked. 'Well, have you ever asked yourself what tribe the Duke hails from? Is he Tarukataru, like Jolm, or Tarukaveri, like Agryce? Why, for instance, did he not send Agryce ahead to draw the enemy's ire, and keep Jolm's men in reserve? And why are they so far behind, offering us no support at all?'

Dolga looked over his shoulder and studied the healer's gawping expression of puzzlement. The Dauwark smirked with satisfaction, his creased eyes twinkling.

'Think on that, impetuous Rovann, and then ask yourself why Jolm would rather ride for the Ruin with the Gilt Plates at his side than wait for the Duke.'

And with that, he went to join his men.

'It's a tribal war!' hissed Samine, leaning over in the saddle as they rode. 'A struggle for dominance of the Krune being played out here, hundreds of miles from their domain.'

'But why?' Chalos asked. 'Doesn't it risk the fury of the Ten Plains King? He wouldn't take kindly to Duke Elas sending Jolm and his men to their deaths, jeopardising the war for the sake of a tribal spat.'

They were heading for the edge of the Dallian Woodland, following a trail known to the Gilt Plates. The enormous Dauwarks moved on all fours like bears, keeping pace comfortably with the shadamars.