Lords of the Sky (20 page)

I saw a figure come at Martus from the side and screamed, “Martus! Beware!”

He turned, axe rising, using the haft to block the descending blade. From behind the Kho’rabi a spear thrust out, the blow too weak to pierce his armor, but enough that he staggered, momentarily unbalanced. Martus lifted his axe, and as he did, another beetlelike warrior sliced a sword across his belly. I saw his face go pale. The axe fell from his hands. He moaned, clutching at his wound as if pained by a belly ache. The first Kho’rabi stabbed him in the ribs. I aimed a blow at the warrior’s helm; Cleton cut at his legs. Leon—for it was his spear—stepped close and rammed the lance between the Kho’rabi’s shoulders.

The fighting surged about us, and for a while I only ducked and parried, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Cleton. Leon disappeared. I caught a glimpse of Martus. He lay on his side, his beard all bloodied, wounds gaping.

There was a parting then, embattled men drifting from us, and I saw Keran dancing backward, desperately parrying the onslaught of two Kho’rabi. Cleton and I sprang to his aid. I hammered my blade against black pauldrons. The Kho’rabi seemed unaware of my attack: I sprang at his back, left hand clawing at his helm as I sought to slice my sword across his throat. Keran stabbed him in the groin, and he made a strange, high-pitched yelping sound. I cut his windpipe and found myself tumbled down with him. I felt boots trample me and thought a blade must surely find me ere I
gained my feet, or that I should be stamped to death in the press. Then a hand grasped my arm and I was hauled upright. I was surprised to find myself looking into Ardyon’s eyes. One was reddened, blood oozing from a cut on the brow. He said. “Can you not fight longer, find safety,” and I shook my head, unable to speak, but not yet willing to flee.

He nodded, and we turned in search of fresh foemen.

There were fewer now, as the sheer weight of our numbers overcame the Kho’rabi. They fought savagely and with a terrible skill, but there were not enough and in time there were none at all.

When it was done I found I was wounded. My arms and chest were cut, and a deep gash painted my breeks red. It was hard to stand on that leg. Cleton was cut about the ribs, and his left arm was broken. We tended one another’s hurts as best we could and limped together to hear our commander’s orders.

Night had fallen, albeit the darkness was colored with flame from the burning buildings. Folk came out to fight the fires, and the city was still loud with the clamor of battle. Keran surveyed us grimly and told the worst hurt to make their way back to the College. I rested my weight on Cleton and he on me, and we both swore we were fit. I said, “Martus is slain,” and Keran ducked his head and commanded we return with the wounded.

We obeyed, joining the sorry column that made its way slowly through a city ravaged by this unprecedented attack. None spoke, but many turned their faces skyward, and all flinched as magic flashed and thundered, or blazing buildings collapsed. I could see no more of the Sky Lords’ craft overhead and thought the worst of the fighting likely over. I felt horribly weary.

It was past midnight before we reached the College and gave ourselves up to Telek’s ministrations. We were not the worst hurt—five students died that night—and we waited for him to sew my thigh and set Cleton’s arm. He was aided by the Changed servants, and I saw Urt tending wounds and applying bandages with a silent efficiency. I thought then of Rwyan, and a terrible fear gripped me—that I knew not whether she lived or died. As soon I might, I beckoned Urt over.

He studied the stained bandage wrapping my thigh. “I am glad you live,” he said.

I smiled my thanks, far more concerned then with Rwyan’s welfare than my own. “Do you find the opportunity,” I asked, albeit without overmuch hope, “I’d know how Rwyan fared.”

“I do not think I can slip away,” he replied.

I grimaced, as much in disappointment as in pain, though my wound throbbed horribly and I felt, as the rush of battle’s excitement left me, very weak. “No,” I said, “I suppose not. But when you can … if you can … I’d be mightily grateful.”

Urt nodded and smiled briefly. “When I can,” he promised.

I said, “My thanks,” and he clasped my shoulder, squeezing a moment, which was a most unusual thing, for the Changed did not usually touch Truemen so familiar. I noticed for the first time that his nails were blunt and very dark. There was dried blood on his hand.

He left me then, and I did not see him again for some time. My weakness grew, and I found myself becoming sleepy, resting against Cleton. Telek attended me around dawn, stitching the gash and declaring me weak from blood loss. He had Changed servants carry me to our chamber, Cleton supervising them, his arm splinted and bound tight against his chest. His temper was not improved by such disability, and he spent a while cursing before declaring his intention of returning to the infirmary to offer what aid he might. I told him I should be safe enough alone. Indeed, I began to find his impatience annoying, for it distracted me when what I wanted most—besides hearing that Rwyan was unharmed—was to sleep.

When he had gone I closed my eyes. Images of Rwyan swam across the screen of my mind. I saw her blasted by the Sky Lords’ wizardry, riven by a Kho’rabi blade, consumed by flames. I sweated, feverish, turning on my bed, so that I cried out as my wound was twisted. In time I slept.

I woke to find Urt squatted at my side. He held a bowl from which savory steam rose. I ignored it. I said, “Rwyan?” My mouth was dry, and it seemed my lips were gummed.

Urt shook his head and said, “Not yet. I’ve no word.”

I cursed and began to rise. The room wavered, and from
a long way away I heard Urt say, “Lie still, Daviot. Master Telek says you’ve lost much blood. You’re not to use that leg, but rest.”

I remember that I tried to answer, to argue, but it seemed that waves of light and distant sound washed over me, and I was turned around, like a piece of flotsam caught in the eddies of the tide. I found it very difficult to focus my eyes. I thought of netted fish drawn struggling from their ocean home; and then of gutted fish.

I lay three days in fever (so Urt and Cleton later advised me), bathed and fed by my friends, and through those days the Sky Lords came again and again, delivering such damage to Durbrecht as none had thought to see, none thought possible.

When the fever broke I was newborn weak, and had it not been for Telek’s potions and the care of my friends, I think I should have died. As it was, I recovered enough that I lay abed frustrated and frightened, hearing the sounds of battle in the sky and the streets, unable to do more than grind my teeth and clutch at the sheets. The fighting continued for two more days and then silence fell. There was still no word of Rwyan.

Five more days passed before Telek deemed me fit to rise and I was able to hobble, leaning heavily on a crutch, about the College. It had not gone unscathed: walls and towers had been blasted by the Sky Lords’ wizardry, statues lay toppled, windows bared teeth of jagged glass, gardens were seared. The city, I was told (I was as yet too weak to venture beyond our ravaged walls), had fared worse. Fires had raged, sunk boats clogged the harbor, hundreds were dead.

I mourned them, but I longed more for news of Rwyan.

Urt brought it me on the twelfth day. He had been much occupied—as were all the able-bodied, both Changed and Truemen—but nonetheless had contrived to contact Lyr through that mysterious network of his kind. He found me alone in our chamber late that afternoon. I was staring from the window, impatient now as Cleton had been, watching the rubble cleared, the masons begin the work of repair. It had been a sunny day, the sky clear of both clouds and airboats. I turned as he entered, not needing to speak, for my question was writ clear on my face.

He closed the door and said, “I’ve spoken with Lyr,”

His tone, his expression, induced an awful foreboding. I felt suddenly chilled. It seemed a pit opened, black, before me, or inside me. I felt hollow. I took a deep breath and voiced words I did not want to utter: “She’s dead?”

“No.” Urt shook his head. “Not dead.”

Desolation was replaced with a new fear. “Hurt, then?” I asked. “She was wounded. Badly?”

He came deeper into the room, standing before me. His body told me he bore bad news. I tried to read his eyes, but they were only compassionate. He shook his head again, a brief movement of negation, and said, “She’s unhurt. She was not wounded.”

Hope flared. “What then?” I asked.

He said, “She’s gone.”

“Gone?” I shook my head helplessly. “How mean you, gone? Gone where?”

He stepped a pace forward, and I thought he was about to touch me again, as if the word he brought were such as should require he comfort me again. Instead, he raised both hands and let them fall to his sides. He said, “To the Sentinels.”

“What?”

I started from my seat. I know not what I thought in that moment—to hobble my way to the harbor, perhaps. To find and halt her boat. I cried out as pain lanced my wound, and fell back, staring at his face, gesturing that he continue.

He said, “As soon as the fighting ended, it was decided the Sentinels must be strengthened. Kherbryn itself was attacked, and the Lord Protector sent word the Sorcerous College must send as many near-adepts as might be spared. Your Rwyan was one.” He closed the gap between us now and did touch me, pushing me gently back as I sought to rise again. “Her boat sailed two days ago. I have only just gotten word from Lyr.”

I said, “Two days ago.”

My voice was harsh. The pit I had sensed earlier gaped wide, beckoning me. Urt crossed the room to where Cleton and I kept a keg of ale. He filled a mug and gave it me. I drank automatically. The ale tasted sour; or my mouth was filled with despair’s ash.

Urt looked a moment out the window, and then at me again. “She left a message with Lyr,” he said.

Dully, I asked, “What is it?”

He paused an instant, as if summoning up a memory, then said, “‘Tell Daviot that I love him. Tell him that I shall always love him, but I cannot refuse my duty. I must go where I am bid, as must he in time. Tell him I pray he recovers. Tell him I shall never forget.’”

He fell silent, and I asked, “Was that all?”

He said, “Yes, that was all.”

I nodded. My eyes were open but I saw nothing, for they filled with tears. That I had known this must eventually happen, that we should be someday parted by our callings, meant nothing. It was no comfort: the day had come too soon—would always have come too soon—and I knew only grief.

I cursed my calling then, for as I sat there my memory conjured her face in precise detail, and I knew it should always be there, reminder of my loss. I drained the mug and held it blindly out to Urt to refill. And I cursed my calling anew, for it denied me even the temporary oblivion of drunkenness. Even did I wish it, I could not forget her. She would always be with me. I heard Urt say, “I am sorry, Daviot,” but I gave no reply. I could not.

I had never felt so alone as I did then.

D
espite the immense fatigue that gripped her, Rwyan remained on deck, her face turned resolutely back toward Durbreeht. It was an effort to focus those senses that replaced her sight, harder for the draining of her occult energies during the fighting and after, but somewhere within the ravaged walls Daviot lay wounded and she could not allow herself to succumb to the temptation to sleep. She could not, she knew, “see” him, nor would he be aware of her observation, but it seemed to her a kind of farewell. It seemed to her she left a piece of her heart there.

The city stood battle-scarred in the early-morning light, like a warrior resting on his bloodied sword, hurt but undefeated. Gaps showed in the ramparts, and in the harbor scorched hulks lay half-sunk, masts thrust from the Treppanek like skeletal fingers clutching at the sky. In the fields beyond the walls great columns of black smoke rose from the pyres of the Sky Lords’ dead. Durbrecht’s slain would find resting places in the mausoleums—for the Kho’rabi there were only the bonfires, like obscene celebrations of hard-won victory. Few enough celebrated, she thought. Rather, there was a licking of wounds, a fearful anticipation of the next attack, the horrid certainty that it
would
come. And would Daviot be still there, she wondered; and would he survive again? She felt her eyes grow moist, slow tears
roll down her cheeks, trailing in their wake a resentment of the duty that tore her from the man she loved.