Silverkin, page 19
One person inside—a human. Young.
A trumpet of explosions boomed back in the center of Castun. He saw soldiers heading towards him, fleeing into the plains. All was madness.
Just do it! Open the tent!
He paused, uncertain. What if Miestri was too close? What if he did not have enough time? Then they would both be trapped.
Stop thinking and just do it!
Exeres flung open the pavilion and stormed inside. There were no lights, just shadows. Something screamed inside his mind, his Shae senses hearing it. The warding! He stumbled against the frame of the pallet, looking towards the source of the Life magic.
“Who are you?”
A young man’s voice.
* * *
It’s not her.
Exeres wrestled against the feelings of disappointment mingled with panic. If Ticastasy wasn’t in the pavilion, where was she?
“Can you run?” Exeres asked the young man.
“I’m…I’m afraid.”
“Of her?”
He heard a swallow. “Yes.”
Exeres smelled the taint drawing closer. She was returning to the tent.
“Come!” Exeres said, hurrying to the other side of the tent. He grabbed the bottom edge of the curtain and pulled with his might.
His blind eye saved him again.
The boy had grabbed a knife from somewhere in the room and lifted it up to plunge it down into his back. Exeres twisted to one side and felt the blade rush by his ear. It shredded the fabric of the pavilion.
“Alth…” The boy started to say but Exeres slammed his elbow into the lad’s ribs, hard enough to stutter him. He gripped the wrist that held the knife and yanked it down, tearing the curtain further. The boy hunched over in pain and thrashed out, trying to cut Exeres with the knife.
Gripping the wrist, Exeres pried the dagger out and tossed it away, then scooped up the boy in his arms and dragged him out the tear in the tent wall. Sweat streaked down his face, stinging his eyes. Fear nipped at his heels and he knew she was almost there, almost to the pavilion. If she saw him, they would both…
He struck the thrashing young man in a sensitive spot above his armpit, along the inside of his arm, to paralyze him. Hoisting the young man up on his shoulder, Exeres jogged away from the pavilion.
A rushing wind keened in the night, howling from the plains like a thousand storms. It welled up, blasting Exeres full in the face. He wondered if he should drop the boy, the boy who had tried to kill him. But he knew that the lad was acting under Miestri’s influence. If he could get him far enough away from her, he might be able to break her grip. How could he leave anyone to the fate he had so desperately fought to sever?
He broke into a run, feeling the weight of the young man like a sack of stones. It slowed him terribly, but what choice was there? Each step took him away from her clutches. Each step brought him closer to freedom. The keening wind carried the tingling of children’s laughter—a twisted, sick chiming sound that sent shivers down to his boots.
The boy moaned.
Further! Faster!
The nightmare faded behind them.
The hazards of running, encumbered, and half-blind in the dark, began to outpace the danger Miestri posed. No smell of the taint. No hint of pursuit. Perhaps Mage’s struggle against her had increased to loan him more time. Crickets chirped in the darkness, seemingly unaware of the raging torrent of winds and magic near the woods. The long-grass whisked against his boots. He went a mile and finally collapsed near a gurgling creek.
He had never felt so tired. For several moments, he panted, lying face down near the banks of the creek. The water’s murmur soothed him. Had they escaped? Truly? Part of him did not believe it. Part of him thought if he looked back, he would see the pavilion within easy sight.
The young man hugged his knees, his eyes wide.
Exeres’ tongue was swollen in his mouth. He dragged himself up a little and closer to the water. “I’m sorry I had to hurt you, lad. Are you…are you with me?”
The boy’s head tilted and his dark eyes focused on Exeres. “She wanted me to stop you.”
“I know. She’s very angry with me. Do you still…do you feel her?”
The boy shook his head. “She…um…she let go.”
Exeres sighed and reached over to tousle the boy’s hair. He looked about twelve. “What’s your name? I’m not very good with names. You might have to tell me twice.”
“Kinross. What’s yours?”
“Exeres.” He gulped down some more air and the pain in his side eased a little. “She let me go too. Here…let’s get a drink. I could drink down the ocean, I’m so thirsty.”
The boy grabbed Exeres’ hand as he reached to cup some water.
He shook his head. “She’s poisoned it, Exeres. I heard her this morning. She told the Kiran…the Kiran Thall…she told them to poison it. She said the knights…” he stopped, swallowing, “...will drink from the creeks in the morning. They’ll all die. They’re all going to die.”
Exeres looked at him, his stomach clenching with dread, his throat sore with thirst. He gripped the boy’s shoulder. “Can you run?”
Chapter XX
A breeze muttered against the tent flap.
Commander Folkes swirled the last hunk of crispdough in the gravy and ate it. He washed it down with chilled ale and then stood. His adjutant, Meloc, approached with the scarred, but polished, breastplate. It was etched with the sigils of a Knight of the Blade, the vine and ivy trim with a rising sun and spangled stars in the center—an opponent Folkes had killed and buried years before. Meloc strapped the buckles, fastening it to his chest. Next came a set of bracers. The left bracer had an oval shield fused to it, a technique invented by the Shae during the Purge Wars. The right bracer bore the thin silver glint of the Kiran Thall.
“Bring my sword, Meloc,” Folkes said, his voice still low from the early hour. He coughed into his hand and took another swallow of ale. “Some storm last night, wasn’t it? Never thought it would snuff out the stars like that.”
The attendant returned with the long sword. “Some of the men thought the Abyss of Pitan was boiling over. Odd storm, sir.”
Folkes smiled at his favorite weapon. Slender and sharp. Fashioned of tinted Shae steel. The blade of a Shae warrior from the Wildnerness of Vale. He buckled the weapon around his waist, felt it reassuringly against his hip.
While Meloc, stone-faced, tightened the leg bracers, a shriek and gust shook the tent walls. Cries outside in the regiment told of trouble, and Folkes scowled. He recognized the scream of a Dragonshrike. Pounding hooves of cavalry stamped outside.
“Commander!” one called. “You’d better get out here!”
Meloc tossed a gray cloak around Folkes’ shoulders as he snatched back the tent flap and stepped outside into the dawn air. The wind bit and tugged, but bore the promise of another mild summer day. Six of his cavalary officers sat on their chestnut geldings, frowning as their mounts fidgeted.
The breeze tousled Folkes’ rusty hair. He blinked as the fresh-dawn sun stabbed his eyes. “Where’s the Dragonshrike?”
One of the cavalry officers pointed.
Folkes turned and almost came out of his boots. “Sweet Hate!” he said with a start, staring wide-eyed at the creature looming behind his tent. It had landed two stone-throws away. Its black scales rippled as it hunched its shoulder feathers. The long serpentine tail swished in the grass. The beak looked big and sharp enough to snap off his head in one bite. He had seen the birds soaring in the mountains. But not this close.
The chink of plate mail sounded and the rider dismounted it. The bird’s glassy eyes blinked twice and the creature straightened, proud as any king.
A sour taste came in Folkes’ mouth. He spat on a clump of prairie grass and folded his arms as he saw Ballinaire’s lead general.
Stanjel Dairron.
Folkes rubbed his mouth, feeling his whiskers rasp. What was Dairron up to now? Why fly that beast all the way out into the Yukilep Plains unless the news wasn’t good?
Only one way to find out.
Folkes stepped away from his tent and approached the towering General, pretending that the big beast meant nothing to him. Dairron had black hair, speckled with gray, and chiseled blue eyes. He was the strongest man Folkes knew. But he was a man—a man you could cut with a sword. And he would bleed. Oh, he would definitely bleed.
The wind kicked up again, blasting across the plains and tugging loose tarps and tent ropes.
“What are you doing away from your army?” Folkes shouted over the wind.
Dairron approached, crushing the grass beneath his riding boots. He wore the black-tinted armor of the Bandit Rebellion and the chain hauberk rustled as he walked. Four gold general bars were pinned at the shoulder of his ashen cloak. He stopped several paces from Folkes and rested his hand on the green-hilt of his sword.
“There’s been a change of plans, Folkes,” Dairron said. His face was unreadable.
“That so? I thought it was pretty clear what we’re supposed to do. Has your army crossed the Dayspring Rush yet? What’s changed?”
“It’s simple. My army will not be crossing any river. I’m not taking part in the madness at Landmoor.”
A chunk of ice congealed in Folkes’ blood. He shook his head, not certain if he had heard right. “Say that again?”
“I don’t think it’s necessary to repeat myself. You don’t really think Ballinaire is going to win, do you?”
Folkes coughed. “What are you saying? He’d sure as Hate better! You’re going to leave us to fight this alone? We’re counting on a combined attack! You need to draw Amberdian and Cypher away from…”
“If I did that, then we would all die. Ballinaire may have the Everoot, but he won’t hold it long. I saw it in his eyes when he talked to us at Landmoor. He does not consider the Shae a threat. He forgets their customs, their Rules of Forbiddance. I know of them, Folkes. I know he cannot win. The Shae are massing south of Landmoor right now, preparing to strike the heart of the Rebellion from the rear. Amberdian and Cypher are moving down from the north. In fact, you have no idea how very close they are to you.”
The ice turned to rage. “Are you some Druid with second-sight? How in all that’s banned can you know what will happen? We saw what the Everoot can do. It can heal any wound, cure any sickness. The armies of Dos-Aralon or the Shae aren’t strong enough to stand against that! You’re slitting your own throat telling me this!”
Dairron was cool, which infuriated Folkes even more. He had the smug grin of a man who knew more than he was letting on.
“Oh, that is only a matter of opinion,” General Dairron said. “Either way—my army will not participate in the battle. You’ll tell me how it ends, won’t you?”
His words cut. “You’re always a step ahead,” Folkes said, moving forward. The General didn’t budge. “You’re all fine and high-and-mighty leaving Tsyrke and me alone in this. You’re craven, that’s what…”
Dairron’s eyes narrowed. “There’s no reason you have to, Folkes,” he whispered.
“What?”
“You heard me well enough.”
Scowling, Folkes stared at him. “You’re suggesting I do the same as you?” He laughed, a choking sound. “You’re forgetting, you scheming rook, that my army is half-way through the Yukilep! It’s a little late to turn around!”
The General shook his head slowly. “Actually there is just enough time to retreat back to the Shadin Mountains. That’s why I saved telling you until today.”
“Hatefully kind of you,” Folkes spat. He shook his head. “I can’t believe this!”
He looked back and saw that his officers had assembled. They were watching and hearing the exchange. Some of the regular soldiers had drawn near to see the bird, but they stayed back far enough that he doubted they could listen in.
“Ballinaire is expecting both of our armies to augment his in Landmoor. Only Tsyrke’s is down there now—the Shoreland regiment. Your regiment sits here in the Yukilep. My army is still safely back in the Kingshadow. Are you convinced that Ballinaire can invade this valley successfully?” He shook his head. “I’m not. Even with the Everoot. Even with the Deathbane it becomes.”
“You can be banned,” Folkes said with hatred, gripping his swordhilt. He hated Dairron with a white-hot surge. “You’d leave Tsyrke all alone in Landmoor, to be cut to ribbons. Well, what if it does work? What if the Everoot is as powerful as Ballinaire promises?”
There was a glint in Dairron’s eyes. Folkes was furious, knowing the General still knew something he wasn’t letting loose.
“Perhaps this will change your mind,” Dairron said, stepping closer. Folkes eased his sword loose in its scabbard, feeling the edge ready to slip free. He’d get one chance at this. One chance to take off Dairron’s head before he could draw his weapon. He planted his rear foot, readying himself.
“The Everoot is not the only magic in Landmoor.” The General’s words were hard, like stone. “Consider this. Why would the Shae have left it unprotected?”
Folkes eyebrows furrowed. “Another magic?”
“The legacy of Everoot is dangerous. If you are going to risk claiming it, you’d better be prepared to pay the cost. Ballinaire is ignorant of Shae tradition. I am not. He thinks they will cower. I know they will fight.” He smirked. “And I do not want to be in the Shoreland when they do. I’ve seen a Ravinjon, Folkes. Nasty business.”
“This could be a lie,” Folkes said, drawing his sword. He waved the tip towards the General. “Clever schemer you are. Convince me to pull back my army while you continue sending yours. Then I’d look like the traitor and Lord Ballinaire would come after my neck with a rope.”
I’ve got you, you rook. You even blink towards your hilt and I’ll run you through…
Dairron chuckled. “It doesn’t surprise me that your limited vision would let you see it that way. Whether you are right or not, what will you do when Ballinaire falls? He will, Folkes. Not even he can live forever. What will you do? Only Tsyrke, you, or I could lead the Rebellion.” His eyes glared. “Neither you nor Tsyrke is strong enough. And I know you both realize that.”
Folkes swallowed, feeling the sweat prickle beneath his arms. Dairron had said it. His ambition had finally been revealed. Ballinaire would kill you for saying that. But why should I let him have the pleasure of doing it?
“I’m looking forward to telling him you just said that,” Folkes said in a low voice. “You know what fury he’ll be in when he hears? You just stabbed yourself in the back, Dairron. I’ll tell him what you...”
“No—you won’t.”
General Dairron drew his broadsword so quickly that Folkes barely caught glint of the sunlight on its blade. He did hear the gasps of soldiers and cavalry officers rumble all around them. A battle between generals. They would see it all.
Sweet Hate!
Folkes gripped the hilt, licking his lips. “I’m not afraid of you, Dairron.”
“I know,” the General said. He stepped forward. “That has always been your greatest weakness.”
Folkes swung. He hoped it was quick enough to catch Dairron off-guard. His blade swooped towards Dairron’s gut, but the General deflected it like a toy. Sparks sprayed from the blades as they struck. Dairron moved in, hammering while Folkes parried and blocked.
Swipe after swipe, Folkes defended himself. He had fought too many battles to be defeated easily. Squinting the sweat from his eyes, he blocked each stroke, waiting for a weakness to open before he countersurged. It always happened. A concerted attack led to openings, a fatal weakness—a chance to slip in for the kill. Their blades rang like bells. He grunted with pain as Dairron’s broadsword glanced off his breastplate, knocking him back. Tightening his legs, he tried to slow the General’s advance. Wait for the opening, wait for the opening.
Folkes glowered, giving more ground. It was like trying to stop a round boulder from rolling downhill. He pressed the attack, deflecting blows with his buckler-shield until his arm throbbed with pain. The hammering blows of the broadsword came on and on.
Rage boiled inside of him. He was losing, in front of all his men. The shame of it kindled a surge of strength. He swung with mad fury and stalled Dairron’s advance. I want those gold pins! he thought. When I kill him, I’ll be the General!
Then Dairron side-stepped abruptly and Folkes felt a surge of terror. He half-stumbled forward, his swings meeting nothing but the morning air. Dairron hit from behind, the pommel crushing his ear, then shoved him into the dirt and clumpy grass. Folkes’ chin struck the ground, jarring him. Scrambling to recover, he rolled over, clearing his flank with a swipe of his sword.
The General stood over him. The tip of the broad sword hovered over his throat.
“I could kill you,” Dairron whispered, his body shadowing Folkes. “I think we both realize that.”
Lying crumpled in the dirt, Folkes felt anger scald his cheeks. If he tried to clear the blade away, Dairron would plunge the tip into his throat.
“But in spite of what you may think of me, I do not want you dead. You were bested by a superior warrior, Folkes. There is no dishonor in that. But your shame will be whole if you do not learn from it—if you keep fighting against me. I told you that Ballinaire cannot live forever. He’ll die down in the Shoreland. Then I will rule the Bandit Rebellion.” He chuckled. “Ballinaire promised you the wardship of the Yukilep and Iniva for serving him. I will give you a more generous helping to join me.”
Folkes stared hard and swallowed the dust in his mouth. “What?” he croaked.
“I will give you what Ballinaire secretly craves the most. You may have the Yukilep and Iniva, but I promise you Owen Draw as well. Yes, Owen Draw. You will be more than a Warden—you will be my Duke.”
“Why?” Folkes said, his eyes hard but interested. “What will you have?”
Dairron lowered the blade and reached to help Folkes stand. It was a dangerous move, Folkes saw—left himself open for another attack. Deliberately. But he also knew Dairron better now to think twice. It was like staring at two roads, one leading to a cliff and the other to a harvest.
