Breath of Heaven, page 35
An answering roar rose up from below, defying the storm. Lotaern stepped up to Vaeren’s side, soaking up the battlecry that had settled into a chant, the members of the Phalanx raising their own weapons, brandishing them toward the walls. Beyond them, Khalaek and the rest of the Wraith army hadn’t reacted, even though Lotaern knew they’d heard Vaeren’s words; he’d made certain of that. But the dwarren Wraith and the leader of the Haessari broke away from Khalaek, trotting their mounts to either side of the army in preparation.
Raising both of his arms to catch the Alvritshai’s attention, Lotaern broke into the chant. “We have faced the Wraith’s before,” he said, his words echoing out from the walls, “and paid a high price in the past. But I stand before you now as Chosen of the Order of Aielan to say that those days are behind us. The acolytes of the Order and the warriors of the Flame have prepared for this day, for this confrontation. We are no longer powerless before the darkness of the Wraiths! As proof, I present to you the Wraith once called Maenaed, captured days ago by the Order of the Flame as Khalaek-khai and his forces approached.”
Vaeren motioned those holding Maenaed’s collar forward. The Phalanx below had fallen silent, tension lacing the air. It shivered through Lotaern’s skin, tingling with the same intensity and energy as that of the storm, and Lotaern savored it with every breath. Maenaed struggled against the chains that bound him, chains Lotaern had researched, had resurrected from the words of the Scripts, had trained the Order of the Flame into mastering in preparation for this moment. The culmination of everything he had worked for was at hand.
Maenaed’s struggles were useless. The Wraith was forced forward, the collar that encircled his neck blazed a harsh white with his efforts, burning with Aielan’s Light, visible to everyone below.
Turning back, Lotaern reached for the folds of metal mesh tucked into his belt and pulled them free. He unfolded the mesh slowly, the curiosity of all of those watching intoxicating. The mesh fell away, revealing the smoothed wooden curves of the knife beneath. Vaeren’s breath hissed out as he recognized the blade he had stolen from Shaeveran over a year before.
Lotaern gripped the hilt, a pulse of the heartwood’s lifeforce coursing through him. He dropped the metal mesh to the stone parapet, faced the Phalanx waiting in enthralled silence, then let his gaze drift toward Khalaek-khai and the waiting army. He couldn’t see the expression on Khalaek’s face, the former Alvritshai lord too distant for such subtleties, but he imagined tension there, perhaps fear at the corners of his eyes.
He raised the knife with both hands, cradled it, careful not to touch its edge. He remembered how easily it had sliced his finger what felt like ages before, when Shaeveran had first shown it to him in the depths of the Sanctuary.
“I give you proof that the Wraiths are not indestructible.”
He turned to face Maenaed, switching his grip on the hilt of the blade. He allowed the anger and rage over all that the Wraiths had inflicted on the Alvritshai, all that they had been forced to endure, including the interference and manipulations of Shaeveran, suffuse him.
“You are an abomination in Aielan’s Eyes, and so I destroy you in Her name.”
Then he raised the knife high overhead, one handed, and plunged it into Maenaed’s chest, directly over his heart.
Maenaed screamed and arched back, the sound piercing the shriek of the wind, cutting deep into Lotaern’s bones and making him clench his jaw. The Chosen was thrust back, the knife slicing down across the Wraith’s chest before wrenching free. “Hold him!” He stumbled and caught himself against the stone wall. The collar blazed as the Wraith struggled against it, blood coating his torso from the chest wound down. Those Flame on the tower strained to hold the anchor, their postures crouched and taut, two with hands outstretched and clenched, as if they held physical ropes. Vaeren stood poised to attack, his cattan before him, his eyes watching Maenaed’s every move. But the Wraith was still constrained. Only Lotaern’s proximity had allowed him to be flung aside.
Lotaern shoved away from the wall and advanced, knife held ready. He could see the Wraith’s strength waning. Blood continued to gush from the wound, the front of the tainted Alvritshai’s clothes saturated. Droplets splattered from his arms, dripped from the folds of his shirt. The Wraith’s scream died into a phlegmy gurgle and he hunched forward, spat blood onto the stone at his feet. He tried to rise, growling low in his throat. He managed only a tilt of his head, his eyes flashing hatred, and then he fell to his knees. Breath coming in harsh, wet heaves, he tried to speak, but Lotaern could discern nothing intelligible through the blood he continued to choke up.
Lotaern moved to sink the knife into the Wraith’s back, but Maenaed collapsed forward and remained still.
Someone shouted something from beneath the tower and the Phalanx let out a roar of triumph. Lotaern let the sound wash over him, the tension in his shoulders releasing. Vaeren shifted forward, prodded Maenaed’s form with one foot, and when the Wraith didn’t move—didn’t even appear to be breathing—he lowered his cattan and met Lotaern’s gaze.
“It is done,” Lotaern said.
He turned to the wall, stepped up to the edge and raised his hand out before him, the bloody knife still clenched tight in one fist. “It is done!”
The answering roar from below was deafening, shuddering in the stone beneath his feet. He basked in the adulation, so intense he closed his eyes. The manic energy of the storm complemented it. A shiver coursed through him, answered a heartbeat later by a blinding flash of lightning and a crackle of thunder. His eyes flew open and he shouted, “Now finish it. Aielan’s Light is at your back and the Order of the Flame is at your side!”
Commands lashed out from below, echoing his words as Peloroun, Saetor, and Houdyll led their forces forward in a charge, only a few remaining behind as reinforcements. Orraen’s orders bit through the winds, the archers on the ramp in the lee of Caercaern nocking arrows and readying. The Wraith’s army was still too distant, the storm cutting down on the archer’s range significantly, but that didn’t matter. The intent was to draw the Wraith army closer to the wall anyway, within range of the archers and the Flame.
Lotaern lowered his arms to the frigid stone of the battlement as across the field the Wraith’s armies charged, Khalaek-khai’s Alvritshai in the center slightly ahead of the Haessari to either side. Khalaek-khai led them astride his horse, not deigning to dismount and use the powers of the Wraiths that Maenaed had taunted them with before his capture. He drew his cattan and hit the front line—Peloroun’s men, Lotaern noted—with a battlecry that was lost on the winds, sword crashing down on Peloroun’s shield. The muted sounds of the battle rolled upwards, punctuated with screams, hissing shrieks, cries of rage and defiance and horror. Lotaern had witnessed such battles before—his first taste at the Escarpment, when he’d introduced the Order of the Flame to the battlefields alongside the rest of the House Phalanx. There had been intense fights with the Wraiths and the sukrael in the years that followed. He had only seen the aftermath of those battles, the sukrael attacking without warning, the Flame unable to prepare ahead of time.
But they were prepared today. He could feel the lines of power that lay across the field, could sense the anticipation of the Flame along the walls.
“And where are you, Shaeveran? You, who swore to protect us?”
“Did he swear to protect us?”
Lotaern gave a start. He hadn’t intended Vaeren to overhear him. But he hadn’t noticed Vaeren approach, the caitan of the Flame standing beside him at the edge of the wall, staring down at the battle below, arms crossed over his chest. He’d sheathed his cattan.
Lotaern glanced behind to see if any of the other members of the Flame were close. But they were still standing at their positions, the collar around the Wraith’s neck still blazing white.
“You can release the anchor.” He gestured with one hand—the one that still clutched the knife.
The Flame glanced toward each other, the eldest bowing his head. “Where do you wish us to go then?”
“Find Boreaus or Petraen. They will know how you can support the Flame best.”
The impromptu leader nodded and led the small group to the stairs leading down to the lower portions of the tower.
After they’d left, Lotaern turned to Vaeren. “Shaeveran did swear to protect us. Not in so many words, but with his actions. He brought the Wraiths down upon us. He agreed to help us in the years following the signing of the Accord at the Escarpment. But where was he when the sukrael were attacking our borders?”
“He is only one man. A human, at that. He could not have protected our borders any better than we did ourselves.”
“Perhaps.” Lotaern shrugged. “Who knows what powers he possesses? He was never very forthcoming about the extent of what the sarenavriell’s taint gave him. I find it hard to believe that he did everything within his power to protect us.”
“He gave us the Winter Tree.”
“He forced it upon us!” Lotaern shouted, and only then did he realize how bitter his thoughts were regarding Shaeveran. His anger ran deep, an anger he’d been harboring for decades. “He forced it upon us,” he repeated in a calmer tone. “As he forced the Accord upon us. And yet when he finally did find something that could be used to protect us,” he raised the knife, “he refused to give it to us. We were forced to take it from him, so that we could use it as intended.”
Vaeren shifted restlessly, but said nothing. Words were unnecessary.
“I know that the theft of the knife has weighed on your soul, caitan. But it was necessary. Do you see that now?”
Vaeren contemplated the field below, where Peloroun’s forces held steady. He’d broken away from Khalaek-khai, the two forced apart by the ebb and surge of the battle, although Lotaern could tell they were straining to reach each other. The Tamaell’s banners stayed with him, his escort using whatever openings were offered to push toward the Wraith. Khalaek-khai slew his former fellow Alvritshai left and right. To either side, the Haessari and Caercaern’s forces washed forward and back, a tide of blood and pain. He’d lost sight of the Haessari leader and the dwarren Wraith.
Vaeren finally lowered his head, not taking his eyes from the battle. “I always understood that retrieving the knife was necessary. I simply wish there had been another way.”
“With Shaeveran, there is no other way. He is arrogant. He believes only he knows what’s right and fitting for our people. He is an interloper. I have striven to provide for the Alvritshai since long before the Escarpment. I began forming the Flame before the sukrael became a problem, before we even knew of the Wraiths. Perhaps, without Shaeveran’s interference, we would not have run into them so soon and we would have been prepared for them.”
“Do you lay none of the blame at Khalaek’s feet? He is the one who dealt with the human Wraith named Walter. He is the one who conspired with him to kill Tamaell Fedorem.”
Loatern nodded. “Khalaek’s hands are bloody, yes. I hold him responsible for much of what has happened. But not all. Shaeverean—and because of his influence, Lord Aeren—share his guilt. I do not know the fate of Lord Aeren. I assume he is still alive, somewhere, along with Thaedoren. But it does not matter. Today, we will punish Khalaek for his role in what has become of the Alvritshai. Today, we will begin taking control of our own destinies. No more reliance on Shaeveran and his gifts. The Flame will show how powerful they truly are, prove they can protect the Alvritshai as well as anything Shaeveran can provide. No one will doubt the power of the Order of Aielan.”
Vaeren said nothing, but his brows creased in a frown. Irritation flashed through Lotaern’s skin. He’d thought the caitan understood and agreed with him. He’d thought his chosen leader of the Flame had faith in his own Chosen and the Order of Aielan.
When Vaeren finally spoke, Lotaern had braced himself for additional arguments, but he was surprised.
“We expected the sukrael here,” Vaeren said. “Where are they?”
Caught off guard, Lotaern didn’t answer immediately. “It doesn’t matter. If they appear, the Flame is waiting, and Peloroun knows what to do. Otherwise, we can leave the majority of the battle to him and Saetor.”
* * *
Peloroun smashed his mailed fist into an Alvritshai traitor’s face. Bone crunched and blood splattered as the Alvritshai screamed, his nose flattened. The traitor reared back, dragging his horse’s reins, the creature rising and kicking with its hooves. The lord of House Ionaen stabbed forward with his cattan as he ducked, felt one of the animal’s hooves skim his shoulder with enough force to jolt him to one side, nearly out of his own horse’s saddle, while sending a frisson of pain down into his arm. He cursed and jerked his cattan free, blood gouting from the wound, then turned to meet the next warrior dressed in the black and gold of the dead House of Duvoraen.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of lightning, highlighting Khalaek, his sword descending, but that brief glimpse was all he got as he was attacked on two sides. He bellowed to his fellow Phalanx, felt them closing in from behind, as he parried one thrust, kicking out with one foot to shove the man back while slapping the other aside with the mail along his arm. He brought his cattan around, slicing into the nearest Alvritshai’s neck, jerking it free and spinning so that he could see Khalaek again.
“Time to finish this,” Peloroun muttered.
Without looking, he shouted, “Eraent, Bulorren, and any of the rest of you who can manage, stay with me!”
Then he kneed his horse forward, the animal chuffing as it sank back on his haunches slightly and launched itself forward. Two Alvritshai fell beneath its feet, the rest attempting to wound it or Peloroun before they were shunted aside. Peloroun hacked on both sides as his steed plowed forward, coming at Khalaek from one side, the tainted lord oblivious, his attention fixed on slaughtering his former countrymen before him. Blood flecked his pale features, as black as the oil that seethed beneath his skin. Hope surged in Peloroun’s chest as he cut the distance by half, Khalaek turning away, exposing his back. Raising his sword, he brought it down in a high slant—
But a moment before it connected, Khalaek’s upper torso blurred and spun, his sword arm shifting up, his cattan blocking the blow with a grating crash of steel on steel. Peloroun let out a cry of disbelief and outrage, but carried his blade’s momentum through, smashing down against Khalaek’s cattan again and again, until finally Khalaek twisted, the blades clashing and sliding off each other, destroying his methodical barrage. Peloroun lurched back, the roar of the battle rushing in to fill the bloodrush in his ears…along with a full, deep laugh.
He blinked at the burn of sweat in his eyes, his chest heaving from exertion, and realized that Khalaek was chuckling. He met the ex-lord’s gaze, teeth clenched.
“Why are you here, Khalaek?” he shouted over the clash of armor and steel to either side of them. Thunder growled overhead, the storm clouds above roiling. “Did you come back of your own accord, or are you Walter’s pawn?”
Khalaek’s dry laugh cut off. “I am no one’s pawn, least of all Walter’s. I’ve come back to reclaim my rightful place as Tamaell of the Alvritshai people.”
Peloroun spat to one side. “You will never be Tamaell of the Alvritshai. You are khai, banished, lost in the eyes of the Evant and in the eyes of Aielan. And the taint of the sarenavriell marks you as well. House Duvoraen is dead.”
“Not while I still live.”
“You expect to take Caercaern with these forces?”
“No, I expect to take them with those.”
He pointed with his sword, and Peloroun followed with his gaze, looking out over the tumultuous battlefield, ebbing and flowing like an ocean. His brow creased in consternation as he searched and found nothing, but just as he was about to turn back to Khalaek, he sensed a ripple in the flow of battle at the outer edges, those closest to the trees to the east.
Squinting, he saw men on the flank begin to fall, picked off like sheep at the edge of a flock. Some of them twisted, swords flashing at nothing, but most simply collapsed, as if their legs had been cut out from under them.
A moment later Peloroun saw a flicker of darkness deeper than even the shadows beneath the trees and the storm. A darkness with a tinge of gold.
“The sukrael.”
“The sukrael,” Khalaek confirmed. “The prisoners of the sarenavriell have been unleashed.”
Khalaek shifted in his saddle and Peloroun spun back, cattan rising to slap away the blade he expected to be falling toward his neck. But Khalaek merely shook his head.
“You should never have betrayed me, Peloroun. Was it Lotaern who convinced you to turn against me? I thought we had reached an agreement back at the salt flats. I thought we were kindred spirits, trapped in the Evant by the machinations of Tamaell Fedorem and the insufferable lords beneath us.”
“We were never kindred spirits.” Peloroun reined in his horse as it picked up on the sudden tension in the battle, its nostrils flaring. The attack of sukrael was being felt even here. He didn’t have much time left. “You murdered Tamaell Fedorem. You betrayed the Alvritshai by conspiring with one of the Wraiths.”
“Ah, yes, I remember. I believe you handed me over to the human king for execution. Do you know what it feels like to be gutted? To have your entrails sliced open and exposed to the night air? Perhaps I’ll show you. If the sukrael don’t get you first.”
Peloroun laughed, satisfaction coursing through him as Khalaek frowned in confusion.
“You underestimate us yet again, Khalaek-khai.” He bit off the end of the traitor’s name. “We’ve prepared for the sukrael.”
Spinning in his seat, he roared, “Sound the horns! Fall back!”
A horn’s forlorn call blew before he’d finished shouting, the call picked up by others on the field, then on the heights above. He risked a glance toward the main tower, prayed that Lotaern was watching, that the Chosen was prepared, then swung his horse back around to face Khalaek.
