Summerblood (8 page)

Anger replaced confusion. Kylin's pulse started to race, even as a rush of heat roared up his cheeks. “You had no right!”

“It was in your quarters,” Crim retorted stiffly. “You abandoned them without warning, permission, or explanation. It was my responsibility to investigate. I didn't know what I was reading until I'd read it. I didn't know what it meant until I heard about the gem.”

Kylin stood abruptly. “I'd appreciate it if you'd—”

He broke off, cocking his head. Listening.

“What?” Then a confused, “I don't hear anything. If this is some excuse—”

“Hush!” Kylin hissed. “Someone's approaching at a run and asking for you. Surely you can hear—”

Crim rose in a swish of garments. Kylin followed her footsteps toward the threshold. She paused there, holding her breath, then slowly eased the door open. The sounds came louder—loud enough for anyone to hear, even one with sight: the hard, brisk tramp of heavy outdoor boots. And words that chilled Kylin to the bone. “Lady,” a young male voice announced breathlessly, “there seems to be a … disturbance.”

“What
kind
of disturbance?” Crim demanded as she let the door slip closed behind her and confronted the panting young man in Warcraft livery who'd just tracked mud onto Clan Omyrr's expensive carpet. He'd been outside, she knew already, by the flush on his cheeks as much as the layered clothing— this far north, the days were chill, even in High Summer. Too, he was Warcraft, in official livery, and the only function such folks served here was to keep watch and guard.

“Armed men in the woods,” the youth gasped. “Moving toward the hold. We've seen the flash of their weapons.”

“Show me,” Crim demanded, already pushing past the breathless messenger in the direction his footprints indicated. He followed at a trot, as her own steps became a run. Fortunately, it wasn't far from Omyrr's suite to the high-arched east–west corridor that was the hold's main thoroughfare. And not far from there to a door that let, via the requisite weather-gate, onto one of the massive stone arcades that wrapped Gem-Hold-Winter on three sides this low down, and four higher up.

By the time she rushed out to join what she saw with dismay was a concerned mob in the arcade, she'd learned that there were “a lot” of these men, that they wore white cloaks above dark blue tunics, that they also wore helms and carried shields but sported no insignia. And that over half of them were mounted on very good horses indeed.
Eronese
horses and weapons. Which negated her notion that this might be a band of renegade Ixtians bent on vengeance.

Her forces were moving, too—such as they were—men and women alike, all clad in summer cloaks of Warcraft crimson, pouring out of archways at the arcade's either end. And if that was happening here, it was probably happening in the other arcades as well. But what could be going on? “Find Akalian,” she told the guard, meaning Warcraft's local chief.

“He should
be
here,” the guard panted, still winded. “We sent for him when we sent for you.”

“
Find
him.”

“I was told to guard you.”

Crim started to reply, then thought better of it, though already she was wishing she'd snared at least a paring knife from Omyrr's suite. Instead, she seized the arm of the competentlooking woman next to her, not waiting for the woman to recognize her before she barked an order—“Go find Akalian of War!”—and was pleased to see the woman scurry off.

For all its enormous size, the arcade was rapidly filling up as rumor spread. If Crim wasn't careful, she'd have panic on her hands, for this was certainly an uneasy mob. Some were fresh from Tir-Eron, she reckoned, or from Half Gorge and South Gorge, which had born the brunt of Ixti's recent incursion. They'd be scared, nervous, and quick to act, when in fact, she had no idea what these supposed warriors' business should be—if any. Worse, if Akalian didn't appear soon, she'd have to act unilaterally, which, where martial matters were concerned, could be a mistake.

She'd reached the stone balustrade by then. Taking a deep breath, she climbed atop it—it was half a span wide but she had a good head for heights, and the important thing was to let herself be seen. Ignoring the murmurs behind her, she scanned the surrounding terrain, searching the fringe of pine woods atop the ridge that ringed what part of the hold wasn't carved into the mountain. There
was
movement there, she acknowledged with a sinking heart; and she could indeed see horses and the white-cloaked figures who rode them, coupled with the flash of metal that could be weapons as easily as armor. Even as she watched, a long line of those half-seen shapes stepped, as by some unheard command, from beneath the shadow of the trees to form a near-unbroken line from left to right—north to south—along the crest of the slope. And—a chill ran up her spine at this—three of every four were mounted. And everything she'd ever read about warfare agreed that infantry generally surpassed cavalry by a ratio of four to one.

So where were the missing men?

She had a terrible feeling she knew. “Back, inside!” she snapped at those who stood nearest. “Arm yourselves and
search for anyone who acts suspicious or looks like they don't belong here. We've almost certainly been invaded.”

As if her word were some sign, the encircling force moved closer. Eight! How many were there, anyway? A hundred? Five hundred? A
thousand
? It had only taken a thousand Ixtians to overwhelm War-Hold, and it had been well fortified. Her hold was mostly warded against the winter, and far too many doors gave access to the ground, all of which had weather-gates that could be sealed at need but probably weren't this time of year.

In any case, these horsemen weren't there to get in; they were there to assure that no one escaped. They would intimidate and distract, while the infantry picked off stragglers.

And then she heard what she'd both dreaded and expected: shouts, cries, and screams, and louder than them all, the heartstopping clang of metal on metal. From behind her.

Those around her were yelling, too, but an encouraging number were turning to fight the white-cloaked men now issuing from every door in sight. As best she could tell, the invaders were fighting their way upward, securing sections as they reached them, which did not bode well, given that this arcade was two-thirds of the way up the hold's face.

Without thinking about it—or waiting for Akalian, who she doubted would do much good anyway, assuming he still lived—she leapt down from her perch, which put her in a circle of milling kinsmen, and started toward the juncture of two massive stone buttresses where the arcade kinked outward to the left.

She had no doubt what had happened. Some force— probably those mysterious folk who had attacked Avall—were now attacking Gem-Hold. They'd most likely entered by stealth at night—maybe several nights. Not all of the entrances were guarded, after all, and she was certain there were some of which even she was unaware, notably the rumored “Gods' Door” Priest-Clan referenced now and then. Which fit with her suspicions about internal collusion perfectly.

But why?
she wondered, as she thrust aside a panicked
woman, then neatly sidestepped a teenage boy trying to comfort a hysterical sister. Yet logic had already provided an answer. Gem-Hold controlled the source of the magic gems, and those gems were the most precious—and powerful—things in Eron. Whoever controlled them controlled the kingdom. And those who stood to gain most by maintaining the established order—which likely meant deposing the present King—were easy enough to name.

Priest-Clan.

Still, Crim knew her responsibility to a fine degree, and it was to her country, her King, her clan, and her hold in that order—and that left no choice as to her next action.

She'd reached the buttresses now: massive piers of stone two spans to a side, rising to the distant ceiling and merging into the wall below. A band of low-relief interlace encircled it at waist level, and her hand quickly found a niche within it that exactly fitted her Warden's ring. This was supposed to be a secret, she reckoned, but this was no time for subtlety, and so she pressed her signet into its place and gave her wrist a quarter turn. Stone grated and grit drifted down on her head, as an opening gaped, revealing a narrow spiral staircase that extended both up and down. She slipped inside at once, though guilt at abandoning her people when they needed her almost made her pause. No, it was too late for them, she concluded. If the invaders had let themselves be seen, the hold was already infested with them, and she knew what she'd do in their boots: take everyone of importance hostage and disarm the rest. And the armory was on the ground level, because no one had ever thought the hold would actually be assailed, the weapons there most often being used for hunting.

“Lady,” came a voice behind her, and she realized she wasn't alone. It was the guard who'd first alerted her.

“What are you doing here?” she rasped, as a stone panel slid home behind her, leaving them both in darkness.

“Guarding you.”

“Stupidly, but I've no time to argue. Do you have a name?”

“Bayne.”

“Let's hope that's not a name of omen. Now go or stay, but don't even think to hinder me. I've got to go down—and down and down.” Not waiting for reply, she found the wall by feel and the steps on whose landing she stood by memory as much as anything, and started downward at absolutely the fastest pace her long Warden's robe allowed. Fortunately, the first full turn revealed one of a series of tiny glow-globes set in handsized niches every dozen steps. To his credit, Bayne didn't protest, but followed doggedly as they began their descent.

“Priest-Clan,” she told him, because he surely wanted to know. “After the mines.”

“You have proof ?”

“I have sense; that'll have to suffice for now.”

“But why … ?”

“Power. Pure and simple.”

“But—”

She didn't reply, for they'd reached a landing and her fingers were once again seeking a certain niche in a certain design. Gem and Stone had once been one, and Stone had here wrought well for Gem. She heard the click at the same time she smelled the forges.

And would've rushed out into battle had Bayne not restrained her. “Lady, you've no weapon—”

“I have now,” she replied brusquely, snatching the sword from his hand before he could stop her. “You've armor; I've none, but I can't delay. There should be something you can use out there. Now come on!”

With that, she strode out into what was normally a vast, whitewashed room, against the walls of which easily two dozen forges were arrayed, most usually occupied by someone from Smithcraft. Avall had shaped the helm's panels here, as had Eddyn portions of the shield, and Strynn most of that wondrous sword. Now, however, it was Crim's own folk being tempered— and losing—mostly over to the left, by the door, where two dozen bare-torsoed and sweaty kinsmen battled a tide of silent
invaders in white cloaks, far too many of which bore telltale splatters of red. It took Crim but a breath to dismiss theirs as a lost cause. “Back,” she told Bayne, shoving him toward the door from which he'd just emerged. He barely had time to snatch a sword blank from a nearby rack before complying. “Lady—”

“We can do no good here,” she snapped, as she followed him in. “We
might
in the mines. They may not have reached there yet.”

“The mines—”

“There are ways to seal them,” she said shortly. “I'm going to do that. It gives me a bargaining position, where otherwise I have none. It's a risk, but it's all I have.”

And with that she set her signet to the wall behind, letting the darkness that followed her down the stairs ensure that it had closed. Maybe she'd been seen, maybe not. It didn't matter. What mattered lay many levels lower.

She was sweating now, and her lungs felt like bellows from the forges she'd just left, pushed too hard and too long to fan too hot a fire. Her heart thumped like the hammers there, or like those on the trods, that loosened the stone for the drills to pierce more easily. Yet ever down she went, feet slapping the treads like the beat of an unheard song. Which reminded her of Kylin, whom she'd abandoned to his fate. Not that she'd known what awaited her. It was amazing, she reckoned, how fast reality could change. Not even a finger had elapsed since Kylin had heard those steps.

Down and down and down, with Bayne still behind her, loyal as a dog, which might not be a virtue if it got him killed. He wasn't War-Hold born, she reckoned, else he'd have been more assertive yet more subtle. Someone had told him his duty, which had absolved him from thinking, and he was doing it. He'd have a clear conscience when this was over. If he survived.

Down and down and down.

She could feel the mines as she approached, for the stair was hewn from the rock of Tar-Megon itself, and the grinding and pounding in the veins rode through that stone to speak of
endless efforts to acquire what was beautiful but ultimately useless, save as objects over which to argue—or make war.

Down and down and down—and then there.

Bayne stumbled into her back before he realized she'd halted, but she ignored the minor discomfort of armor striking her shoulders while she fumbled, yet again, with a hidden catch.

This time she emerged into something no more remarkable than a blind niche in the Mine-Master's common room, the true nature of which had hopefully eluded him. Not that it mattered, for a cautious check showed the room unoccupied, with no sign yet that battle raged beyond it.

Setting her shoulders, she opened the door opposite the arch, which put her in the Master's duty chamber—empty as well. In any case her business was farther on: at the entrance to the mines themselves, one more door, an archway, and a very large room from where she stood. There were still no sounds of battle. Or maybe she simply couldn't hear them.

With Bayne in tow, she stepped out into the corridor that surrounded the octagonal entrance chamber—exactly as footsteps echoed on the lone “formal” stair to the right. Someone was evidently in as big a hurry as she was, with more steps following, these heavily booted.