Sword of Shadows (32 page)

Chapter Thirty-Six

Akmael’s army plodded
beneath gray and weeping clouds. By mid-afternoon, the rain relented somewhat, and while the sun did not show its face, the sky brightened. Steam began to rise from the horses and the cloaks of their riders.

Scouts returned from the south and spoke at length with Akmael and his officers. The mood of their deliberation was grim, with set jaws and hardened eyes. At Akmael’s command, the army continued another half league before reaching a campsite along the Tarba River.

While the men began setting picket lines, pitching tents, and digging latrines, Eolyn was asked to accompany the King, his officers, and his mages, in order to survey the ground where they intended to halt the Syrnte advance. It was a broad plain sloping downward from a low ridge, flanked on the west by the steep banks of the Tarba and on the east by a young but dense forest. The terrain would give them an advantage, Akmael told her, and this was one of the reasons why he had decided to wait for the Syrnte here.

At the crest of the ridge, Eolyn dismounted with the rest of the mages. The King and his men completed their rounds on horseback, while she and her fellow practitioners walked barefoot, listening to the hush of the wind over damp grass, the quiet turnover of the earth below their feet. They sent their spirits toward the core of the long plateau. Eolyn could tell from the slow pace of its heart that this was the root of an ancient mountain, worn to its foundations by time and forces beyond her ken.

One of the mages drew close, a portly man with a jovial face, a bulbous nose, and bushy white eyebrows. He introduced himself as Echior. “We met once, in a hamlet of Moehn. Not that I would expect you to remember.”

Eolyn had to study him a moment, but she did remember. “At the wedding. You were the one who told me about Mage Corey and his Circle.”

Echior nodded, a broad grin on his face. “You could have trusted me back then, you know. Though you were wise not to.” He held up his staff. “I’m a High Mage, now. Completed my training after Tzeremond was dead and the prohibition was lifted. Not as skilled as the likes of Corey or Thelyn, but you’ve got a friend in me, if you ever need one.”

The declaration warmed her heart. “Thank you, Mage Echior.”

Side by side, they searched the low-slung ridge until they found a small rise that could serve as a focal point of magic during battle. No sooner had they cast their first circle than the King and his men returned.

Akmael dismounted to inspect their work. Expressing his approval with a brief nod, he instructed the mages to establish a second circle to the west, near the forest. Eolyn was asked to return to camp with the King while the mages continued their work along the ridge.

“You must be weary,” Akmael said as they rode together.

“There is no place for weariness on the eve of war.”

“Well said.” He scanned the landscape as he spoke. Eolyn could feel him register every dip and knoll, every stray tree and solitary rock.

“This evening, we will sit with the chief officers and High Mages,” he said, “and you will share everything you know about the Naether Demons.”

“I fear it will not be much.”

“Whatever you have found will be of use. And there is something else.” Akmael reined in his steed. “Did Borten instruct you as I commanded?”

Eolyn’s throat constricted. “You mean, has he taught me sword play?”

Akmael nodded.

“Well,” she stumbled over her words, “yes, but—”

“Show me.”

“My Lord King, we only started a few weeks ago, and I have not touched a weapon since I escaped Moehn.”

“All the more reason to do so now.”

Akmael dismounted and beckoned Eolyn to follow. He unsheathed Kel’Barú and gave it to her before procuring another blade from one of the knights. The men gathered around them in a loose circle, some dismounting, others remaining seated on their horses, all of them watching with expressions of amusement, curiosity, or doubt.

Eolyn hesitated in anticipation of their ridicule. “Please, Akmael—my Lord King—this is a pointless exercise.”

In a single stride he was upon her, his blade a deadly flash that gave her no time to think before deflecting its descent. Metal sung against metal, and the blow reverberated through her body, causing Eolyn to lose her footing and stumble back on the slick grass.

She recovered breathless and frightened, never having imagined he would strike with such force.

“Ground yourself,” Akmael said. “You do not have my strength, but you have your magic. Use it.”

The severity of his tone squashed all protest. Eolyn drew a breath and pressed her feet against the damp earth, the weight of inevitability settling on her shoulders. Kel’Barú hummed in her grip as if awakened from a deep sleep. Its whisper invoked images of battles long forgotten.

“Good,” Akmael said, though he corrected her posture and the placement of her feet. “Again.”

Eolyn struck without hesitation, but her resolve did little good. There was not a guard or a counter that met with his full approval, and she died a dozen times during their brief parry. Even so, the men did not jeer.

When at last, the ordeal ended, Akmael simply nodded and said, “It is a start.”

He returned his sword to its owner, then sheathed Kel’Barú.

“I will not be putting you in the vanguard, Maga Eolyn.” This provoked laughter from the men. “But you will have this weapon at your disposal, and you must use it with confidence should the need arise.”

Eolyn nodded, tight-lipped, the blood having drained from her face. They returned to their horses. As Akmael prepared to assist her in mounting, a tremor shook her body. Smoke and flames clouded her vision. She saw blades swinging through chaos, the bodies of children slaughtered, the twisted corpse of her father. Her knees failed, and she would have sunk to the ground had the King not caught her by the elbow.

“Eolyn,” he said, voice laden with concern.

“You held back.” Her voice shook. “Do you think I do not know? You held back. If anyone were ever to attack me in earnest, I could never—”

“The sword is not your only defense.”

“But it is a man’s first weapon.”

“Eolyn.” He took her face in his hands. “This will not depend solely on you, and certainly not on your ability to handle a sword. There are men assigned to your protection, under orders to take you north to Rhiemsaven, and from there to the King’s City, should the tide turn against us.”

“I will not desert you.”

He warmed her lips with a kiss. “What you carry within is much more important than any battle we might wage together. The destiny of my fathers will be undone if you are snatched from the world of the living. Promise me you will protect yourself at all costs, even if it means leaving me to my death.”

“Akmael, you cannot ask me to—”

“Promise me.”

The rain returned, a slow mist that wet her cheeks and chilled her to the bone. She longed for a warm fire on a quiet hearth, for stars that hung over Ghemena’s cottage, for fireflies that danced in the summer meadow.

“You could have come to my world,” she said quietly. “You could have left all this behind and stayed with me in the South Woods instead.”

Melancholy invaded his expression. He studied her a long moment. “Could I have?”

Pain lodged in Eolyn’s throat. She looked away. “Every moment we are together, we are preparing to be apart.”

“Every moment we have been apart has brought us back together.”

“But today is different. Today, you speak of your death.”

“It is a foolish king who does not recognize his own mortality. A greater fool still, the king who loses his determination to live. I will do everything in my power to win this war, and my power is great. But their power…” He glanced south, toward the ruinous Pass of Aerunden. “Their power may be greater. We must be brave, but we must also be cautious.”

He drew Eolyn close, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight against his chest. There was a tremor on his breath as he pressed his lips against her forehead. “You, Eolyn, have always been both. If the Gods should call me home when we meet the Syrnte, you must take up my sword and defend our people.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

From the confines of her tent,
Adiana heard a marked crescendo in the shouts of men, the movement of feet, the whinny of horses. The girl who brought her daily meals appeared, cheeks flushed with anticipation.

“Prince Mechnes’ messenger has arrived from the north,” she said. “They have sighted the armies of the Mage King, and will engage with them on the morrow, or the day after. Victory is at hand! Everyone says so. The General has never lost a battle, and the San’iloman will send her creatures after the Mage King tonight.”

The girl skipped out of the room, leaving Adiana staring at a plate of food for which she had no appetite.

She had understood her fate from the moment Prince Mechnes turned her over to the San’iloman. In truth, she welcomed it. Death seemed the only way out, but Adiana did not have the courage to do this with her own hand. So she was relieved, happy even, one might say, that the task had been given to Rishona.

At night when Adiana lay down to rest, she still felt the iron confines of Mechnes’s embrace, tasted the bitter salt of his sweat. On the rare occasions she managed to sleep, her dreams always led to him. Even in his absence, the Syrnte prince had her ensnared, his malicious appetites intertwined with the music of her mind; her shame, desire, and fear interwoven with bloody ambition.

At times, she feared they would never be parted, that their spirits were now so tightly bound he could follow her into the Afterlife, tormenting her with this revulsion and need for the rest of eternity.

Adiana shuddered at the thought.

Death will set me free
, she reassured herself.
Rishona will open the door.

That afternoon, servants bathed her, dressed her, brushed and plaited her hair as if for preparing a maiden for a wedding. Adiana felt no protest on her lips, no resistance in her heart. She had only one regret: She would never know the fate of her people. Had Eolyn survived? And what of Mariel and Sirena? What of Borten and that new guard, the burly and unkempt man whose name Adiana no longer remembered? Did anything remain of the dream they tried to build in the highlands of Moehn? A shard of women’s magic that would survive this terror?

Eolyn, you often told me the dead can assist the living. If this is true, and you remain in this world, then I will find a way to help you.

The sun had disappeared behind the western hills by the time they bound Adiana’s wrists and led her up a long winding path to a grassy knoll overlooking the narrow Valley of Aerunden.

Torches lit their way under a starless sky. The San’iloman waited at the summit in a simple ivory gown. A circlet of gold and rubies adorned Rishona’s dark hair. Beside her, the priestess Donatya held a satin pillow on which rested the obsidian blade.

Rishona greeted her prisoner with a deep bow.

“Adiana, beloved sister, it is in this place that the defeat of the past will be transformed into the victory of tomorrow.” The San’iloman lifted her arms and spoke to all those assembled. “This woman’s life is the final and greatest sacrifice we will make on this campaign. Honor her. Honor her, I say! For it is by her magic that the people of Moisehén will at last be freed from the treachery of the Mage Kings. It is through her death that glory will come to the Syrnte.”

Soldiers and servants went to their knees in reverent silence. Only Rishona remained standing, triumph illuminating her face.

She stepped toward Adiana and said in gentle tones, “Do not fear, my beloved sister, for my blade is swift and true. Death will embrace you with the sweetness of a summer breeze. I swear to you by all the Gods I serve, no one will forget what you gave for our people. After this night, you will be remembered forever.”

Adiana was caught between the urge to laugh and the need to vomit.

Yes, I will be remembered. Remembered as a prisoner, slave, and whore to the vilest people ever to have claimed the Syrnte crown
.

Rishona clapped her hands. Everyone rose.

The San’iloman and her priestess lifted their voice in song. Fire ignited along the rim of a wide circle marked by pungent herbs, forming an iridescent curtain of sapphire and amethyst, shot through with gold.

Adiana had never been one to pray to the Gods, but she did so now, begging for a speedy death. She called to Renate, Tasha, and Catarina, pleading that they deliver her from the labyrinth of the Underworld, and receive her with friendship and forgiveness in the Afterlife.

Rishona passed through the curtain of flame as if gliding on air. She took a stance at the center of the circle and chanted in an ancient language unknown to Adiana. The obsidian blade glinted in her grasp. Thunder rumbled beneath the earth.

The hairs on Adiana’s neck rose, and fear surged down her spine. When the San’iloman extended her arm toward the prisoner, her face was pale as the moon, her eyes glassy and black.

The guards shoved Adiana forward, and she stumbled through the curtain of fire. The flames were cold and left her unscathed. Sound was muted within. A stench of death and decay rose from the damp earth.

Panic overtook her. Adiana turned to flee, but the curtain roared with a gust of scalding wind that threw her off her feet. She landed hard, bruising her elbows. The leather cords drew blood from her wrists.

Rishona caught her by the arm and with inhuman strength dragged Adiana to the center of the circle. She grasped Adiana’s hair and forced her head back. Lifting the obsidian knife high, the San’iloman chanted while the ground rippled with restless fury.

Blind terror consumed Adiana. Caught in Rishona’s pitiless grip, she kicked and shrieked and wept for mercy. Lightening crackled at the edge of the circle and snaked toward them in undulating rivers.

Rishona paused in her song, knife suspended at Adiana’s throat.

Adiana ceased her cries, paralyzed by the frigid sting of the San’iloman’s blade.

The ground was illuminated by a net of light. Three serpents emerged from this net, scales glowing like a thousand stars. Their forked tongues flickered in fiery sparks. They recoiled, heads lifted, ready to strike.

Adiana sensed uncertainty in Rishona’s stance.

The San’iloman’s grip on Adiana loosened. The blade wavered.

In that instant, the snakes sprang forward, hissing past Adiana and striking at the San’iloman. Two latched onto her wrists, the third sprouted wings and leapt toward her neck. Rishona cried out and slashed at the attackers with her blade, severing heads from necks and letting go a thunderous curse.

Lightning inundated the circle. Air began to move in a vortex that quickly gathered speed.

Horrified, Adiana scrambled away. Wind stung her eyes. Explosions of fire and sulfur choked off her breath. Just as she reached the sapphire curtain, a wall of yellow flame cut across her path.

“Adiana!”

Her name was a howl on the wind, and yet the voice sounded impossibly familiar. Spinning around, she saw Mage Corey, his countenance infused with deadly intent, a shaft of yellow flame bursting from his palm.

“Stay where you are,” he commanded.

She watched in bewilderment as he completed another circle of flame within the first that had been cast by Rishona.

Behind him, two mage warriors were locked in struggle with the San’iloman. Wind and light twisted in a turbulent maelstrom. Those within could barely be seen. Curses imploded inside Adiana’s head. Her ears rang and her body ached. She begged the Gods to stop them all before this terror obliterated her.

Corey strode into the fray, power crackling from his staff. A glowing carpet spread over the ground and the serpents reappeared, not three this time, but dozens. Rishona’s blade struck rapid and furious, but each writhing body she severed was regenerated. Heads grew tails and tails sprouted heads.

The San’iloman’s arms flailed in an ever more desperate attempt to defend herself, but she was trapped in a voracious labyrinth of light. The stench of burnt flesh impregnated the air. The screaming wind transformed into a mournful gale, and then was silenced altogether.

Rishona sank to her knees, convulsed, and became still. Her arms fell limp at her sides; her shoulders sagged. She hung her head in defeat.

The snakes dissolved, though the glowing net from which they had arisen still hummed over the earth.

Cautiously, Corey approached the San’iloman, accepting a sword from one of his companions.

Rishona lifted her eyes to the mage. Recognition and surprise filled her countenance, followed by tender affection.

“You,” she said quietly, sorrow in her voice.

“Yes, me,” he said, and hacked off her head.

As Rishona’s mutilated body fell to the ground, Corey strode to Adiana and cut the cords from her wrists.

“Find the King,” he told the mages. “Tell him all that you have seen.”

They shimmered, transformed into owls, and escaped on silent wings. One of them carried off Rishona’s head, blood-matted hair entangled in its talons.

Adiana gasped for breath and tried to steady her heart. “Why are you here?”

“Because of you.” Corey surveyed the wall of fire that still protected them, blood and sweat beading his brow. “And I am not likely to let you forget it.”

Adiana heard shouts of consternation. A spear flew through the fire and grazed past Corey’s shoulder. He went to his knees and pulled Adiana down with him.

The ground lurched. Howls erupted from the bowls of the earth, followed by a belligerent pounding beneath their feet.

“I fear this is going to go badly,” he said.

The ground caved in at their feet.

Corey rose and with a thunderous curse sent a bolt of white light into the trench. Screams of rage and agony burst from the shadows below. The mage hauled Adiana back to her feet.

“Those demons are coming,” he said, “and I do not have the means to stop them.”

Another spear hissed past from outside the circle. The trench spewed forth a shower of rock and grit, followed by an ear-splitting shriek.

“Don’t leave me here,” Adiana begged.

“I will not abandon you, but to take you with me involves a great risk.”

“Greater than this?”

Corey set his lips in a thin line. “Perhaps. Do you trust me, Adiana?”

“No.”

He wrapped his arm around her waist. “You always were the clever one. Remember this: Your sisters love you. And so do I.”

Corey planted his lips upon hers. Startled, she pulled away, but the mage held fast. All shame, all regret, all her miserable failures disappeared inside that kiss. Past, present, and future fused into a single flash of light. Hope ignited in Adiana’s heart, along with the memory of what it meant to live in a world of innocence, a place of limitless possibility.

Then she was falling away from him, collapsing in on herself. Adiana’s limbs shrank and changed form. The wall of fire roared to greater heights as she fluttered helpless to the ground. She clutched at the grass only to realize she had no fingers, struggled to stand on legs that bent in awkward directions. In terror and confusion, she cried out to Mage Corey, but all that escaped her throat was an anxious repetitive chirp.

Wind buffeted her feathers; giant talons seized her body. The ground raced away just as the dark hole disgorged a herd of Naether Demons. They leapt through the ring of fire and seized all within reach, tearing them limb from limb. Screams of anguish filled the night, and then slowly faded into the distance. Light from the torches disappeared among twisting branches and dense foliage.

The air felt cool upon Adiana’s face. Tranquil sounds of the forest soothed her spirit. Shadows enveloped her awareness and memory slipped toward oblivion, flowing down a darkened path until all that was left was a single melody, a melancholy warble, a sequence of crystal clear notes easily scattered by a careless wind.