Breath of Heaven, page 5
Tarramic faced west, and Quotl watched the realization dawn on his face. “There is another Wraith army, and it’s already deep into dwarren lands. What is its purpose?”
“I don’t know.”
“We must inform the Cochen.”
And the shamans of Thousand Springs must meet, Quotl thought as he rolled the papers and restored them to the cylinder. They must call upon Ilacqua and the gods of the Four Rivers for guidance. Perhaps they would reveal something of what the messages contained, even if Quotl couldn’t read them.
3
Deep within the Hauttaeren Mountains behind Caercaern, Tamaell Thaedoren listened to the soothing words of a chant as three members of the White Phalanx stepped forward, knelt as if in supplication to Aielan, head bowed, and held three burning brands to the tinder of the pyres. Lord Aeren’s body lay on the center pyre, flanked by two other guardsmen who had died of their wounds after they’d fled into the passage hidden behind the cascade of water at the back edge of the Tamaell’s private gardens. As soon as Thaedoren, Daedalen, and the last of the mixed White and Rhyssal Phalanx had passed through, the massive stone door had been pushed back into place and sealed. They’d tended to their wounded first, before moving deeper into the tunnels. The caverns had been carved from the rock, rough-hewn and serviceable, nothing more. They connected to the halls and corridors that were the province of Lotaern and the Sanctuary in a few locations, but had been kept secret from the Order of Aielan since their creation. A few caches of supplies lined the main tunnel, placed there at the tunnel’s creation and mostly useless, but they had already been raided by the Phalanx members. They’d survived off of that and what little food they’d found in the upper floors of the palace. The pyres for the dead were built from old torches and odd pieces of dried wood soaked in lantern oil, and they were far enough from the palace that the smoke seeping through the cracks in the ceiling used for ventilation wouldn’t be noticed from the outside.
As tinder caught, the three White Phalanx stepped back. Smoke filled the narrow chamber, harsh and acrid with burning oil and flesh, but Thaedoren forced himself to remain even though his eyes teared. Others retreated back down the corridor, coughing. Those few still chanting ground down into silence. Hiroun, Lord Aeren’s personal guard, stood beside Thaedoren, his hand clenching and unclenching on the handle of his cattan. Daedalen stood, back rigid, on his other side.
As soon as Aeren’s pyre shifted, consumed wood snapping beneath the body’s weight, Daedalen turned and placed one hand on Thaedoren’s shoulder. “It’s time to move.”
Thaedoren nodded. He wished he could have given Aeren to Aielan’s Light more properly, in the white fires in one of the temples, but they couldn’t carry the body where they were going. Nor could they keep it preserved. He didn’t know when they’d be back among the normal populace, let alone free enough to perform a ritual in a temple unhindered.
Motioning to the guardsmen to either side, he headed deeper into the tunnels, leaving Hiroun and the other Rhyssal guards to mourn their fallen lord.
“Are the rest of the Phalanx ready?” Thaedoren asked.
“We’ve gathered whatever we could from the supplies stored here. We can get water from the pools and streams built into the tunnel. But the food we found in the upper floors of the palace won’t last long. We have nearly forty Phalanx, eight of those from Rhyssal House, along with myself, you, and Reanne. At strict rations, we can make it another two days. We need to find additional supplies by then.”
“We’ll have to risk using the exits into the city then. Send some of the Phalanx out into the streets to collect food and to scout out what Lotaern and the others are doing. The rest of us will continue on to the exits farther west along the mountains.”
“And where will we head once we’re out?”
Thaedoren had no idea how many of the White Phalanx survived within the city. Had any of them had a chance to retreat? Or were they caught in their barracks and slaughtered before they could fight or escape? He had seen no signs of resistance from the height of the gardens, but that meant little. Regardless, he could see no way to rally whatever support he held within the city for a stand against Peloroun and the others. He couldn’t even count on the support of his own people, the House of Resue. Not with the way Lotaern had used his position as Chosen, along with the acolytes and Flame, to taint the general populace’s opinion this past year. All Lotaern need say is that the Wraiths and the sukrael were coming and the fear inspired by those creatures in the years before Shaeveran brought the Winter Tree would ignite again and bring the people to his side.
“The only House I can guarantee is not a part of the coup is Rhyssal. We’ll head to Artillien. Perhaps our mother will know something of what is happening with the other Houses and where their loyalties lie.”
And perhaps with the Rhyssal House Phalanx behind him, he’ll have a chance to regroup, find his allies, and with them, reclaim his throne and the heart of the Alvritshai people.
* * *
“Time! Back off!”
Corim broke off his parry of Wade’s swing at the swordmaster’s curt command, but Wade didn’t pull his strike. The wooden training blade thunked into Corim’s upper arm with a slap and the older boy sneered as he stepped back. Corim glowered as he rubbed at his arm. Wade’s eyes widened and he motioned Corim forward, urging him to attack. Corim’s training blade rose to waist height.
Wade had been pushing him all morning, tripping him in the barracks when they stumbled awake for roll call and mumbling a fake apology, spilling his water down Corim’s shoulder at breakfast, then flicking small stones at him during the laps around the practice yard and wall. As soon as they fell into line for the sword drill, he’d made certain he stood across from Corim, even though he was two years older and at least a hand taller.
As soon as the swordmaster barked, “Begin!” Wade had taken every opportunity to push the boundaries of the lesson and hurt Corim. Nothing serious—a sharp rap to his knuckles, a stinging slap of the flat of the blade against his side. His upper arm was the only one that would bruise, although he could already feel the ache in his side and his knuckles throbbed.
The most frustrating part was Corim didn’t know why Wade had singled him out. There were nearly fifty boys in the group, ranging in age from ten to fourteen, Wade one of the oldest. They were taken from the refugees and the city both, all of them conscripted and set to training within a day of the Horde’s arrival on the plains before Temeritt and the burning of the Autumn Tree. Corim knew of thirty such groups, spread throughout the city, but he suspected there were more. Temeritt was huge, so large and with so many people that the first few days had been overwhelming. He would have fled if the city gates hadn’t all been closed against the Horde.
And if there’d been any other place he could flee to.
The grief sliced cleanly through his anger and the tip of his wooden blade dropped, point hitting the dirt. It caught him at odd moments, when he least expected it, and he fought the tightening in his chest, the burn at the corners of his eyes. The attack on Gray’s Kill that had killed his parents and destroyed his life had happened months ago; he should be over it. He needed to be over it, needed to be strong, like Jayson and Gregson.
Gripping the handle of the wooden sword, he shoved the grief aside and faced off against Wade again as the swordmaster called for another bout. The muscle in his upper arm twinged, but he fell into a guarded stance. All across the practice yard, the others did the same, facing off against each other in pairs. Wade smirked before slipping into the stance easily. He’d had more practice before being made part of the group, had protested when he’d seen the others on that first day, demanded to be moved to an older unit, although Braxton, the swordmaster, had ignored him.
“Set!” Braxton shouted at the far end of the yard, back to them all, then turned. “Begin!”
Corim thrust forward, as they’d been shown, Wade shunting the blade aside with a sharp crack of wood against wood. But then he spun the wooden length around and tagged Corim on the back of the hand, the blunt tip gouging into flesh. Corim yelped as his hand went numb, tingling pain lancing up to his elbow. His mock sword dropped into the dust, but he reached down with his other hand and snatched it up. His breath hissed out between clenched teeth as he repositioned.
The older boy only laughed. The hackles on the back of Corim’s neck and shoulders rose, and something inside him snapped.
He launched forward, sword swinging awkwardly in his left hand. Shock registered in Wade’s eyes a moment before Corim’s blade connected with his temple. As he fell back with a scream, Corim leaped onto him, straddling his torso as he punched with his right hand and flailed with the wooden sword in his left. Every strike with his right caused sizzling pain, but he didn’t stop, even when he heard distant shouts and felt an arm wrap around his torso and drag him away. He kicked and writhed in the grip, two other men helping Wade up into a sitting position. Blood trailed down from a cut on Wade’s temple and dirt from the yard speckled the right side of his face, but otherwise he looked unharmed.
“Stop it!” a voice growled in his ear. The arm that held him shook him roughly. “I said stop it! It’s over. Let it go.”
Corim went limp, sword dropping from his grasp. The arm holding him slowly relaxed and lowered him to his feet. Corim’s anger was gone, replaced by a humming numbness that bled into a shame he could feel burning his cheeks. Jayson wouldn’t have lost it, like a child.
“What happened here?” Braxton demanded, halting between the two.
“He attacked me,” Wade spat. “He wasn’t following the drill. Stupid farmer.”
“I’m not a farmer, I’m a miller.”
Wade snorted and one of the men, a guardsman, smacked him on the back of the head hard enough he stumbled forward.
“Farmer, miller, merchant’s apprentice, it doesn’t matter,” Braxton said. “You’re all soldiers now. And you will fight, or haven’t you seen the army waiting outside our walls? Save the fight for them.”
The swordmaster spun on the men and boys who’d clustered behind him. “Form up! You all’ve earned another hour’s worth of practice to make up for this lost time. Now move!” He grabbed the shoulder of one of the youngest and pushed him back into position before turning on both Corim and Wade. “Both of you will do another ten laps around the yard and the barrack’s wall once we’re finished. No infighting, you hear? I don’t care who you are—” he shot a finger at Wade “—or where you came from—” now pointing at Corim “—you’ll work together or you’ll die beneath the Horde.”
He stalked away, and the guard at Corim’s back finally released his hold, although he turned him around and caught his gaze. Corim hadn’t seen him before, but then most of the Temeritt Legion looked the same to him, in their black and orange tabards. Like most, this one sported a black beard trimmed close, nicked in a few places by scars. The helm shadowed dark brown eyes.
“You all right?”
Corim flushed again under his scrutiny. “Yes, sir.”
“Don’t let him get to you. He isn’t worth it.”
Corim watched the guardsman walk away, then turned and faced Wade. The blood had already dried at Wade’s temple. He brushed at the dirt on his face as he shifted forward opposite Corim, mock sword held tight and ready.
“So the miller wants to be a soldier,” Wade muttered. “I’ll show you how to be a soldier.”
Corim scooped up his own sword, Wade’s eyes flicking left and right. Two of Temeritt’s Legion stood to one side, eyes on them both. Braxton also remained close, although his attention was divided between them and the others in their group who had already begun sparring, the sounds of mock battle rattling across the yard.
“Ready?” Wade asked.
Sweat broke out in the palms of Corim’s hands, but he nodded.
Wade attacked, bringing his sword around hard. Corim parried, the crack of wood on wood making him wince. His hand tingled with the shock, the ache in the back of his hand reawakening. Wade’s blows fell harsh and heavy, but the older boy kept to the drill. He simply didn’t pull any of his strikes, using all of his strength to pound Corim back and grind down his defenses. Any slip on Corim’s part and the wooden blade slipped through and hit hard, Corim hissing to keep from crying out. The Legion watched impassively, one of them growing bored after a while and glancing away. Braxton grunted in approval before wandering to the far side of the yard again.
They drilled for another two hours, Braxton’s shouts filling the length of the quad, until Corim’s arms felt like rubber and his entire body like one large bruise. Jayson had worked him hard at the mill, but nothing like this, nothing that strained every muscle in his body. As soon as Braxton called for a halt, half of the boys collapsed to the ground, Corim among them. He was drenched in sweat, but didn’t care, staring up at the blue of the sky above, breathing heavily.
Wade leaned over him. He was sweaty, but he wasn’t winded. He prodded Corim with the tip of his sword and said, “Don’t get too comfortable, miller boy. We still have to run the yard and the wall.”
Corim groaned.
As he clambered to his feet, the rest of the Legion who’d kept watch on them all morning were systematically rousing the rest of those who’d collapsed, herding them all toward the meal hall and the barracks beyond. Braxton stood in the center of the yard. “Ten laps. Put your practice swords away before you start.”
* * *
“Vics is still favoring his left leg,” Terson muttered. “He shouldn’t be in training. He should be in the infirmary.”
Lieutenant Commander Gregson stirred. They stood on one of Temeritt’s many defensive walls, constructed over the years as the town grew into the massive city that now consumed the entire hill from the palace at its apex to a good portion of the surrounding plains. Only the lake beneath the hill’s sharpest bluff broke through the serpentine streets and crush of buildings.
Gregson turned his attention back to the recruits training in the rough square beneath them. “If this were a normal training session, then he would be. But with the Horde outside our walls, every able-bodied man who can train, will train.”
Terson’s body grew rigid with disapproval. Gregson’s newly promoted lieutenant practically slept with the Legion’s codebook under his pillow. Anything that deviated from it set him on edge.
Motioning to the rest of the men, Gregson added, “The miller, Jayson, has improved.”
“Yes. More so than the rest of the refugees we’ve picked up.”
Gregson didn’t like the condescension in Terson’s voice, but he’d known of the soldier’s prejudices since he’d been assigned to Cobble Kill and placed under Gregson’s command. Terson had been raised in the city, son of a Legionnaire in a long line of Legionnaires. He’d hated Cobble Kill and he’d never hidden that hate well. Gregson secretly wondered if his assignment there had been some sort of punishment meted out by those higher in command here in Temeritt, although he would never have the opportunity to find out.
Gregson had been promoted along with a slew of other survivors after the retreat to Temeritt, the entire Legion force reorganized even as the Autumn Tree burned outside their walls and the Horde entrenched themselves on the plains around it. His new command consisted of veteran Legionnaires called back into service, a slew of soldiers who had barely finished training before the Horde’s attack on the province, and nearly twice that in refugees and raw recruits from the city and those who had managed to make its walls before the gates had been sealed. Gregson had set the veterans and soldiers to training the recruits immediately.
Movement caught his eye on the far side of the square. A page in Lord Kobel’s livery halted at the edge of the activity, scanning the recruits before jogging around to Marshall, the soldier Gregson had put in charge of the morning’s spear exercise. Marshall didn’t halt his rhythmic barks of “Thrust!” Nor did he take his eyes off the recruits, all of them lunging and shoving their spears forward into imaginary enemies before pulling them back and resetting after each command. At each lunge, a grunting “Huh!” filled the square. All of the men wore armor—what could be cobbled together after the trained Legionnaires had taken their share—and all of them were sweating profusely in the early afternoon heat. After a moment, Marshall glanced toward Gregson’s position and motioned the page toward the wall.
The young boy looked up, hand shaded against the sun, then took off toward the stairs to the right.
“Message.”
Terson perked up in interest.
Minutes later, the page appeared and trotted toward them. As he turned, Gregson’s eye caught on the remains of the Autumn Tree in the distance. The blackened branches spiked into the sky, the bole rising higher than their position halfway up Temeritt’s hill. He recalled seeing the tree the first time he came to Temeritt as a boy, ready to become part of the Legion. Its leaves—most larger than he had been then himself—rustling in the breeze as his escort of recruitment officers herded their group toward the city. He’d asked then why the tree hadn’t been placed inside the city walls, but the officers had scoffed at him, as if the question were asinine. Only later had he learned that when Colin Harten had planted the tree, Temeritt had been nothing more than a tower with a few surrounding cottages. There hadn’t been a wall, or a city.
Recalling the image of those leaves burning, the entire tree a tower of flame, Gregson wrenched his gaze away to meet the page.
“Message from GreatLord Kobel for Lieutenant Commander Gregson, sir.” The boy nodded stiffly, fist over his heart, then presented a folded missive sealed with wax.
Gregson took it without comment and broke the seal. He could sense Terson’s anticipation as he read it, knew his second fought the urge to read it over his shoulder. When he was done, he folded the note. “Tell GreatLord Kobel and Lord Akers that my men will be ready.”
