Breath of Heaven, page 37
He would have done it regardless of Khalaek’s wishes.
Reaching out with the powers of the sarenavriell, he seized time and slowed it.
And began to move.
* * *
Inside the tower, Boreaus stood beside Petraen at one of the wide windows, staring down at the battlefield. Cattan ready, his fingers itched to descend to the rough ground below and dance among the cries of blood and death. His skin and muscles ached with the urge. He wanted to smell the Haessari’s blood, wanted to feel his blade slicing into their scaled flesh. He wanted to be surrounded with Aielan’s Light as he fought, dodging their strikes. As he watched, one of them reared back, flaps unfolding from the sides of its neck, and then it lunged forward, mouth gaping. Its fangs sank into its victim’s neck and with a wrench of its head it flung Boreaus’ fellow Alvritshai aside. The man writhed as black tendrils began threading through his skin toward his head and heart, but the Haessari had already moved on.
At his side, his brother said “I didn’t know they could do that. Did you?”
“The Scripts aren’t clear, but there were hints that their venom was poisonous.”
“What are they? Where do they come from?”
“They’re called the Haessari. The Scripts say we drove them from the Hauttaeren and that they fled south and east. We haven’t seen or heard from them since.”
“They should have stayed wherever they came from. Even if they aren’t affected by Aielan’s Light, Saetor and Houdyll are still holding their own against them.”
Boreaus scanned the field. “Perhaps.” He eyed the western flank, where the Haessari had nearly reached the base of the wall, Houdyll’s men giving ground reluctantly, but still falling back. Houdyll’s forces were the weakest. Saetor’s men held the east, defending the base of the ramp lined with Orraen’s archers and protecting the only approach to the gates of Caercaern. Peloroun’s men appeared to be bolstering Houdyll where they could.
They watched the fighting in silence. After twenty full minutes of study, Boreaus still could not predict the outcome. Saetor, Houdyll, and the Haessari were closely matched, even with Orraen’s archers on the ramp above.
Boreaus was watching Saetor slice through three of the Haessari when Petraen gave a sudden, surprised grunt.
He glanced to one side. “What is it?”
“I’m not certain. Something…something changed.”
“What? Where?” His eyes grazed the field, latched on unexpected movement. “Khalaek’s men are moving.”
“That’s not it, although why are they moving now? They’ve held back this long.”
“Khalaek and the dwarren Wraith can’t enter the field,” Boreaus said with certainty. “Not with Aielan’s Light still burning through the ground.”
Petraen gasped. “It’s the fire. Aielan’s Light. Something’s happening to the lines of power on the field. They’re faltering. They’re being ripped free.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
His brother was connected to the construct. If he didn’t know...
Boreaus spun and scanned the rest of the Flame gathered inside the tower room. There were six of them—two who had accompanied Petraen and held two of the lines holding the fire on the field, the other four those who’d held the anchor on Maenaed. Lotaern had sent them below, but neither Petraen nor Boreaus knew what to do with them. They were hanging back, out of the way. The two holding lines weren’t reacting like Petraen, but Petraen was acting as the center for the entire construct.
Even so, one of the two suddenly flinched and glanced toward Boreaus with a troubled look. “I think something’s wrong—”
Boreaus cut him off, dashing toward the western side of the tower, leaning far out so he could see down the wall’s length. Wind bit into his face, brought tears to his eyes. Its cold burned down into his lungs, but he fixed his attention on the wall, Lord Daesor’s men mixed with Orraen’s Phalanx strung out along its length from the tower. Nearly all of them were hunched into their armor at the edge of the wall, looking down at the battle, waiting to see if the Wraith army made it to the ramp. Scattered through their white-green and maroon-gold raimant, he picked out members of the Flame, spaced out more or less evenly. His gaze jumped from the nearest down the line—
Until it came up short.
Boreaus’ hands clenched against the unyielding stone of the window’s ledge. He searched the rest of the wall to the west, but couldn’t pick out any of the Flame. They were simply gone. The last one still visible, the fifth one out from the tower, stood back from the press of Phalanx closest to the wall’s edge. The Flame holding Aielan’s Light in place didn’t need to see the construct, they only needed to be in alignment with all of the rest. But where had the others gone? What had happened to them?
A second later, a black figure blurred into view alongside the member of the Flame farthest out. Boreaus watched in horror as the man gave a start, his only reaction before the Wraith brought his cattan across the man’s throat, tilting the body backwards as blood fountained and dropping it back behind the wall. None of the Phalanx staring out at the battlefield reacted. Boreaus doubted his fellow member of the Order had had a chance to cry out before he was dead, and even if he had, the storm would have torn the scream away.
As soon as the body began to fall, the Wraith blurred out of existence.
Boreaus held his breath, although he knew what would happen next.
The Wraith appeared beside the next member of the Flame, dispatching him as quickly as the first.
He swore and whirled. “There’s a Wraith inside the walls. He’s taking out the Flame holding the fire.”
“What are you talking about?” the elder who’d held the anchor on the roof demanded.
Boreaus ignored the question. “We don’t have much time. We’ll need to set up another snare like the one we used to capture Maenaed.” He halted abruptly, thinking back on the brief glimpse he’d gotten of the Wraith as it attacked on the wall, then swore again, more forcefully. “The Wraith inside the wall is Maenaed.”
“That’s impossible. We saw the Chosen kill him! We saw the body!”
“It doesn’t matter. You three, space yourself out along the eastern wall. The rest of you do the same to the west. Orient yourselves away from the door if you can, and keep yourself hidden. Begin the chant as soon as you’re all in place. Petraen, you and I will remain in the center of the room.”
“What about the fire below?”
“Let it go. It’s going to collapse soon anyway.”
The two holding lines shot a questioning glance toward Petraen.
“Do as he says. I’m going to release the lines anyway.”
The four who’d held the anchor hesitated, the younger ones moving first. The elder shook his head, but took a place in the far eastern corner of the room. “We’re too confined. It will never work.”
Boreaus stalked back to the window, but none of the rest of the Flame remained on the wall. He trotted across the room to the eastern side, passing Petraen. The other six began the low chant that set the snare. He unconsciously fell into the cadence, his body tingling in response.
On the eastern wall, the Flame were still arrayed all along its length.
A sound—a choked, expelled breath; a sickening patter of blood—came from behind him and he spun, his cattan snicking from its sheath in one fluid motion. A blur of darkness skated from the eldest Flame to the next around the circle, like a flowing wisp of smoke, but with deadly purpose, the second member of the Flame taken out before Boreaus even registered the sudden stain of red growing against the white of the eldest’s surplice. Boreaus lunged forward, but the Wraith was already moving, the others in the room beginning to cry out in realization. Brow creased, he focused, tried to catch the elusive figure as it moved from man to man, blade flickering in the lantern light inside the room, blood splattering on walls in smooth arcs, cries cut short. But the Wraith moved too fast, circling the room in the space of ten heartbeats, each thud growing louder in Boreaus’ ears. Yet by the time the sixth man fell, he found himself catching the faintest hints of the music the Wraith followed, the rhythm of his movements, the thought behind the dance.
Then the Wraith launched himself toward Petraen. Boreaus’ cattan swung before conscious thought, striking the Wraith’s blade in midair, Petraen stumbling back from the blow. His brother belatedly drew his own cattan and the two brothers faced off against Maenaed.
The Wraith had stilled, facing them, framed by the window that looked south over the battlefield.
“I’m impressed,” Maenaed said. “Let’s see if that was a lucky block.”
He blurred, Boreaus shifting to counter as he bellowed to Petraen, “Warn the others!”
It was all he managed to say before Maenaed’s blade slammed into his own cattan, metal clanging and shrieking as he thrust the Wraith away, already anticipating the tainted Alvritshai’s next strike. Weapons whirred, steel clashing on steel for another two blows, and then the tip of Maenaed’s sword sliced down Boreaus’ arm. He swore, realizing that his counter had been a fraction of a breath too slow, that he’d have to think farther ahead. But Maenaed’s blows were coming faster and faster.
Jaw clenched, ignoring the silver-thin pain of the cut on his arm, he feinted, parried another strike, caught a glimpse of Maenaed’s features as he blurred into existence, then back out, used that glimpse and the direction of Maenaed’s momentum to predict the next attack, and lunged back, the Wraith’s cattan sweeping across his stomach, catching in his shirt. He drove his own blade forward, steel passing through the space Maenaed’s hand had been in, then hissed in frustration when the Wraith shifted away. But he couldn’t afford hesitation. He flowed into the next movement, his cattan slashing downward, shunting Maenaed’s aside, then up and back, catching Maenaed’s again. They danced across the room, following a rhythm that Boreaus knew was more instinct than plan. He felt the remnants of Aielan’s Light from what had been called to the field stirring in the earth beneath him and he reached for it. If he could pull the light into himself, shape it and use it against Maenaed, as they’d shaped it to capture him, as they’d used it on the battlefield below against the sukrael...
The white flames had just begun to suffuse him when he realized his latest parry had met empty air.
Before he could recover, a blade punched into his side from behind. It slid up under his ribcage, into his vital organs. White hot pain seared away his vision, sucked his breath away. Not a cattan, he thought, the words strangely clear as he tasted thick blood at the back of his throat. A dagger.
Maenaed had changed the dance.
He staggered back and the Wraith caught him from behind, clasped him close with one arm over his shoulder as he choked and spat up blood. The Wraith’s other hand still held the dagger deep in his side.
“You lasted longer than I expected,” Maenaed said, his voice close to Boreaus’ ear, his breath hot against Boreaus’ skin. “Much longer.”
The Wraith twisted the dagger and Boreaus couldn’t contain the scream. He wrenched to one side, to escape the pain, but Maenaed held him in an iron grip.
Leaning in closer, the Wraith murmured, “You’re an excellent warrior. The Chosen would have been proud. Wish him well when you see him in Aielan’s Light.”
Maenaed jerked the dagger free and released him. Boreaus fell to the stone floor, his legs numb, his entire lower body dead. His cattan clattered to the stone. He couldn’t move his arm. He’d fallen on his side, felt blood trailing out of the corner of his mouth, pooling in his throat, blocking off his breath. His chest shuddered as Maenaed walked away from him toward the door, boot heels clunking loudly on the floor. Boreaus blinked. Blood pooled at the edge of his vision, seeping outwards across the stone. His own blood.
He wondered if he’d given his brother enough time to warn the others, and then his body stilled and his vision filled with a pure white light, like flame.
* * *
On the western tower, Lord Daesor saw the seething white fire on the battlefield gutter and then go out, the flames sinking back into the ground.
“What—?”
His gaze shot toward the eastern tower, where the Chosen had slain the captured Wraith, but the tower was empty.
No, not empty. He could see a body slumped to the stone. He couldn’t be certain, but he thought it was Vaeren.
There was no sign of Lotaern or the Wraith.
His heart faltered for a single beat and then he lurched forward, leaned out over the wall toward the ramp and gates below. In his peripheral vision, Khalaek’s entire Phalanx began to move, charging toward the raging battle between Saetor, Houdyll, and the snake people…charging toward the base of the ramp. But what held his attention was the group of archers who surrounded a crumpled body on the ramp to one side. Lord Orraen was pushing through that group now, shoving his own Phalanx aside. Daesor could see the anger on his face even at this distance, could see him shouting orders. Then the lord reached the body. He knelt, rolled the body over onto its back—it was clearly Lotaern; the Chosen’s robes of office were obvious—and pressed a hand against Lotaern’s neck.
No Wraith body, Vaeren dead, Lotaern dead...
The moment Orraen looked upwards toward Daesor’s position, the lord of House Nuant spun. “Sound a warning.”
Those Phalanx with the horns glanced toward each other in confusion. “Which warning?”
“We have a Wraith inside the gates. Warn Saetor below, and call those spread along the wall back to the tower.” He turned to the rest of the Phalanx. “The rest of you, follow me. We have to protect the gates.”
He jogged toward the stairs leading into the depths of the tower, his Phalanx falling into position around him, orders being shouted back and forth as they descended. Ten steps down, the horns cried out, tattered by the winds. After twenty he heard a choked off scream. He picked up speed, drew his cattan as he moved. The clank and clatter of the winch echoed up through the stairwell. He could hear the protests of the wood as the gate creaked open and he moved even faster, cursing as he flung himself around the last corner and onto the final flight of steps. The Wraith loomed over the winch, the gatehouse floor wreathed with dead bodies, including the member of the Flame named Petraen.
“Halt!” He raised his blade and pointed it at the Wraith.
The tainted Alvritshai turned to look at him as he charged down the last few steps. Then he thrust his blade deep into the gears of the winch and pulled the release.
Metal shrieked against metal as the gears of the mechanism began to turn, the gate beginning to drop. Then they caught against the blade obstructing their movement. The Wraith smiled, then stepped to one side. His body smeared into darkness, like smudged charcoal on paper, and vanished.
Daesor’s Phalanx plowed to a halt behind him. He waited, expecting the Wraith to reappear again, perhaps directly in front of him, but after a few moments of tense silence, he gestured with his sword toward the winch. “See to the gates.”
He strode across the room to the window, sidestepping through the bodies. Half of his men converged on the winch, the others fanning out. Four of them kept close to his side as he leaned out the window and glared down at the gates.
They were more than half raised. The Wraith hadn’t had time to open them completely, but there was plenty of room for Khalaek and his forces to pass beneath and into the city.
He shoved away from the window. “Can you fix it?”
One of his caitans looked up from the mess of cogs and wheels. “The sword is locked in place. We can’t budge it. At least two of the gear shafts have cracked. We can fix it, but it will take time.”
Daesor glanced out the window. Khalaek’s Duvoraen Phalanx had hit the forces at the end of the ramp hard. Saetor and Houdyll’s men had been split, the snake people and Khalaek driving like a wedge toward the ramp. If they gained the heights...
“We don’t have time. Forget repairing it. Can you do something to get the gate lowered?”
The caitan’s brow creased in thought, his gaze shifting from the shattered gears to the surrounding walls. Daesor knew there were pulleys and weights hidden behind the stone, but he knew nothing about how they worked.
“If I can find the counterweights, I can cut them free.” He met Daesor’s gaze squarely. “But if I do that and the gates close, there will be no way to get them back open again on command. Everyone outside will be trapped there.”
Daesor pressed his lips together. “Do it.”
His caitan chose three other men. They vanished down a second set of stairs, presumably looking for the counterweights.
“What about the rest of us?”
Daesor turned toward his own Protector. He had few of his own House Phalanx here with him in Caercaern—one of the reasons he’d been stationed on the wall; although he knew another had been a certain amount of distrust between him and Peloroun—but those that were here were men he had faith would defend Caercaern to the last. He could hear others approaching, men who’d been scattered along the parapet and had answered his summons. He straightened as the first of them poured into the room with varied looks of determination, hatred, and confusion.
“Gather everyone in the street below,” he said. “We’ll have to defend the gates.”
* * *
“Lord Saetor! Look to the gates!”
Saetor Uslaen yanked his cattan from a snake creature’s throat, its head lolling to the side at an unnatural angle, then said harshly, “Torrael and Gaeghan, take my place,” as he pulled his horse’s reins, the steed retreating from the front lines. He slashed down toward two enemies who tried to follow, slicing across the snout of one of them, before his Protector and caitan surged forward and closed the gap. Only then did he glance away from the front line where his Uslaen Phalanx pushed hard against the Wraith’s army. He frowned as his gaze swept over his forces. Khalaek and the Duvoraen Alvritshai had cut through the line, were now attacking the base of the ramp, already making headway up the gradual slope. Orraen’s archers were scrambling to recover, a knot of them trying to shove the Duvoraen back. Arrows spat back and forth between the two, men falling on both sides. On the far side of the Wraith forces, he could see Houdyll’s men attempting to rally as well. He didn’t understand Khalaek’s strategy. Taking the ramp would be worthless with enemy forces both above and below. He didn’t have enough men to keep them all at bay on two fronts—
