The Sworn (49 page)

“Whether or not this becomes a War of Unmaking lies in the decisions made upon the battlefield. Great powers, mortal and magical, will align against each other, great enough to destroy everything you have known. And yet, the end is unclear. Only one thing is certain. War will come.”

The Dread did not ask their leave. One instant, Tris could feel the oppressively heavy power of the dark shapes beyond the mist, and the next, the shapes were gone and with them, their power. Talwyn tugged on Tris’s hand and nodded toward the Wolf Consort, who had emerged behind them, ready to guide them home. Neither Talwyn nor Tris spoke until they stood in the mist back in the clearing. The Wolf Consort stood between them and the fire, and beyond him, their bodies waited.

“Honored Consort,” Talwyn said. “Thank you.” She and Tris both made a low bow. The Wolf Consort inclined his head, and then his image dissipated like smoke on the breeze. Talwyn dropped Tris’s hand, and Tris felt her energy return to her body. Tris shuddered as his spirit returned.

Fallon and Nisim withdrew their anchoring presence, and Tris felt the wardings fall. Jair and Kiara rushed forward, each of them bearing bread and wine so that Tris and Talwyn could ground themselves.

“Did the Dread come? What did you see?” Fallon’s voice was uncharacteristically curious.

Tris nodded, finishing a mouthful of bread and taking the time to gulp down the wine before replying. “Yes, the Dread came. As for what I saw—it was a shadow more than a clear image. But the legends are right. They’re powerful. Really powerful. We want them on our side, if they choose sides, but I think it would be better for everyone if they didn’t play at all.”

“What did they want from you? Do you think they’ll side with Margolan?” Kiara reached out to touch Tris on the shoulder, as if to reassure herself that he was fully back among the living.

“He wanted to size me up. Whether that’s as a potential ally, or as an enemy to defeat, I still don’t know.” Tris’s voice showed the fatigue of the working.

Jair slipped his arm around Talwyn’s shoulders to steady her, as if he could read how much the working had drained her. “Did they answer your questions?”

Tris exchanged glances with Talwyn before he replied. “After a fashion. They believe war is inevitable. Whether or not the war ends everything is apparently up to us.”

H
ere’s what we think of your whore-spawned king!” The rebel’s face was partially covered by a kerchief, but the dung that flew through the air to land with a wet thud against Cam’s shield made the protester’s meaning abundantly clear.

“Disperse to your homes! Disperse now!” Cam’s voice was raw with shouting, and the crowd facing them seemed in no mood to hear. That he and the Veigonn were helping to put down rioters should have given anyone an idea of just how bad things had become.

The palace city of Aberponte was aflame.

What had begun as a tavern brawl between a soldier and a townsman with Divisionist sympathies had spilled out into the street. Whether the first fire had truly been from a lantern knocked over in the brawl or whether it had been set intentionally no longer mattered. From where Cam sat astride his battle steed, the smoke was thick and the fall night was unseasonably hot. The entire horizon glowed orange with flames. At least a third of the city was on fire, and though he could hear the cries of the bucket
brigades behind him, it was anyone’s guess as to whether they could stop the flames from leaping from roof to roof.

A hail of rocks answered the shouted warning. They slammed against Cam’s shield and helm, clattering off his horse’s armor. Cam tugged on his reins to keep his warhorse still. As one, the line of mounted soldiers advanced, forcing the crowd back a pace.

“Disperse, by order of the king! Go home now, and no one gets hurt.”

“Pox take you and your king! Go to the Crone!”

The rioters surged forward, fueled by rage and ale. Cam knew that their orders to put down the riots with as little violence as possible could only control the situation for so long. At some point, one side would push the other too far, and blood would flow. The soldiers were armored and mounted on massive horses with iron-shod hooves. The crowd had its fury and its sheer size, emboldened by alcohol and provoked by fear.

A row of men with homemade pikes rushed forward to hold the mounted soldiers at bay while the crowd pelted them with larger objects, fist-sized pieces of stone, broken bottles, and sharp shards of pottery. Though Cam’s armor deflected the worst of the blows, one of the pottery pieces opened a gash on his cheek and a large stone hit his left forearm hard enough to momentarily numb his hand.

“Swords out!” Cam and the other soldiers drew their swords. Half a dozen men armed with sickles and barn rakes ran at them with a cry as the crowd roared. Before their makeshift weapons could do damage, the soldiers’ swords whistled down, sending heads and limbs rolling.

Cam winced. It was one thing to fight invaders; it was another thing entirely to slaughter townsfolk. He had
hoped it wouldn’t come to this. A collective gasp rose from the crowd.
Run away
, Cam willed to the angry mob.
Do the smart thing and run away.

Plague, famine, and fear fueled rage. The mob surged forward, hurling anything that wasn’t nailed down and grabbing whatever they could carry as weapons. Two burly men wrenched a watering trough free from its moorings and ran at full speed toward the line of soldiers.

“Defend yourselves!” Wilym shouted. Cam’s stallion reared up on his great hind legs and kicked at the attackers. The horse’s massive hooves connected with a sick thud, taking the top off one man’s skull and sending the other man flying back.

Enraged, the crowd kept coming. All around him, Cam could hear the snick of swords meeting flesh and the sound of bodies hitting the ground. Curses flew from both sides, and the rioters had begun to climb for higher ground, scaling the balconies and drainpipes for better advantage. The hail of muck and solid objects now rained down from above. Out of the corner of his eye, Cam saw a small boulder slam down on one of the soldiers. The crowd cheered wildly as the soldier toppled from his horse, and three men ran forward to slit the downed man’s throat, scrambling out of the way before the soldier’s comrades could ride to his defense. The cobblestones were red with blood and strewn with shattered glass, and the air smelled of burning thatch and open sewers.

We’re damned, no matter what we do. Fall back, and the mob storms the palace gates. Cut them all down, and they become martyrs, while the soldiers become the enemy. Even if we win, we lose.

If the soldiers had held back before, the sight of one of
their own lying dead on the road put an end to restraint. Cam heard battle cries tear from the throats of the men around him as they urged their war steeds forward, laying into the crowd with their swords with as much fury as if they were on a field of battle. Half of the mob held their ground, hurling broken bottles and rocks. Behind them, the others put up hastily made barricades of overturned wagons and upended barrels and crates. From behind the cover of the barricade, slings and slingshots replaced hand-thrown rocks, firing their missiles with better aim and deadly force.

If we’ve got to take back the city from our own people street by street, Goddess help us!

The alleyway was littered with severed arms and mangled bodies, but the sight seemed to drive the mob beyond fear. Across the barricades, down the alleys that fed into the street, Cam could hear running footsteps and see more fighters coming to join the rebels behind the barricades.

“Forward!” Wilym gave the order, and as one, the soldiers headed straight for the barricades at full gallop, their heavy hooves making a deafening roar as the sound echoed from the buildings. Even the most stalwart of the rabble fled their ramshackle fortification as the wall of battle steeds charged toward them. The iron hooves smashed through the wagons and barrels, sending a rain of wooden bits into the air. Cam grimaced as one of the rioters stumbled underneath the hooves, screaming.

Farther down the alley, Cam could see the mob rallying again. This time, they used the stone wall at the edge of the common grazing area as their redoubt, and the hail of insults and rocks resumed.

“This is going to take the whole bloody night,” Cam heard Wilym curse.

Instead of scattering, more people were streaming toward the fight. Some of them might have intended to be onlookers, and others might have been fleeing the fires. But like it or not, they had become combatants.

“Bows drawn!”

Reluctantly, Cam sheathed his sword and drew the crossbow that was slung across his back. An ugly night was about to become even uglier.

The first salvo of quarrels sailed through the air, and a row of men at the front of the opposition crumpled and fell. Rocks and bits of wood studded with nails sailed through the air returning the fire. A chunk of wood the size of a man’s fist barely missed Cam’s shoulder. Another round of arrows flew, and more rioters fell.

Suddenly, three small barrels sailed through the air, slamming into the cobblestones just ahead of the soldiers and their horses. Cam had a heartbeat to recognize the smell of the liquid that burst from the kegs to realize what the rioters intended.

“Fall back!”

Torches landed in the pools of brandy, and a wall of flame flared, forcing the horsemen to back up. Too late, Cam could hear the pounding of footsteps behind them and he realized that more rioters had closed in on them from the rear.

“Ride for it!”

Cam wheeled his horse and rode hard as the alleyway behind them began to close, choked off by rioters who were screaming obscenities. Bodies scattered as the heavy war steeds forced their way through. Blows fell on the soldiers and horses as they passed, and Cam knew blood was running down his good leg where a dagger had been jammed into his thigh.

Suddenly, the night was as bright as day. A blinding white light illuminated the alleyway, forcing soldiers and rioters alike to turn their heads and shield their eyes. To Cam’s utter astonishment, the rioters began to topple over, their expressions showing total confusion as their bodies, still frozen in place, wavered and fell over.

“By the Crone! What—”

Cam and the others turned to see two gray-robed battle mages behind them. Wilym grinned broadly and motioned for his soldiers to lower their weapons. “You’re a welcome sight, my friends.”

One of the battle mages, a tall man with graying temples, stepped forward. “Sorry it took us a bit to get to you. The king sent us out to do what we could to stop the fires, and when riots broke out, it got to be difficult to move from place to place.”

Cam could see the concern on Wilym’s face. “It’s like this all over the city? By the Whore! What about the fires?”

Even as Wilym spoke, the second battle mage, a woman with a long, dark braid, raised her hands and put out the sputtering fire that still guttered in the pools of spilled brandy. The alley reeked of blood and scorched alcohol.

“We’ve put the worst out,” the man replied. “Some of the rest will have to burn themselves out, but we’ve managed to contain them.”

“And the rioters?” Wilym asked with a jerk of his head toward the jumble of bodies that lay still behind their barricade.

The battle mage’s face was streaked with soot, but he managed a tired smile. “They’re not dead, though they’ll wake up with headaches that might make them wish they
were. I dare say that a bout of diarrhea will keep them from taking to the streets again for a few days, at least.”

Wilym looked at the mage skeptically. “Glad you’re on our side.”

The mage turned his attention to Cam and seemed to note the crest on his breastplate and shield that marked him as King’s Champion. “Cam of Cairnrach?”

“Aye.”

“We were told to tell you and the leader of the Veigonn that the king wants you in the palace as soon as you can be spared from the fight.”

Cam and Wilym exchanged glances. “Any idea why?” Wilym asked.

The battle mage shook his head. “I didn’t think it wise to ask. We were all told to keep an eye out for you, and to tell you to come straightaway, without taking time to clean up.”

Cam spread his arms and looked down at himself in dismay. “I’m covered with filth!”

The mage shrugged. “Those were the orders. I’m guessing that the king could guess what you look like and doesn’t care.”

They paused only long enough for Cam to pull the dagger from his leg and bind up the wound. Wilym shouted terse orders to his second in command, and with a nod of thanks to the mages, he and Cam headed uphill toward Aberponte. As they made their way to the palace, the night’s toll became more apparent. Injured townsfolk stood aside to let them pass, following them with baleful gazes. Whole blocks of buildings were charred wrecks, with smoke still rising from fallen timbers. Many of the stores and pubs had broken windows, and more than one
woman leaned out of an upper window to shout curses at them as they galloped by.

“Why do I have the feeling that the night isn’t going to get any better once we reach to the palace?” Cam asked.

Wilym’s expression told Cam that the other had shared the same thought. “I hope Donelan meant what he said about coming straight to the palace. We both look like we’ve been to war, and we smell like a sewer!”