Restoration (53 page)

“Where would they go?” I screamed at Blaise over the roar of the flames, knowing—terrified—what he would answer. Ash swirled lazily in the torrid air like enchanted leaves that vanished at a touch. A pine exploded into flame just behind me.

“Taíne Horet,” he said. His bony face was distraught, his serenity shattered as he pointed to the path that wound through a stand of burning trees and led deeper into the mountains toward the old kings' stronghold. Aleksander slammed his heels into his horse's heaving flanks before the word had left Blaise's tongue. I was the only person ahead of him.

Whether it was Blaise or I who worked the enchantment to speed us through the rugged terrain, I never knew. The riders did not slow as they passed the hacked remains of the settlers' rear guard, but thundered after me as they had since I told them of my terrible suspicion. No man or woman of the raiding party but had a child or lover, kinsman or friend among those in the valley. I could not think of Evan. Anger already ruled my arm, and I needed to keep some semblance of reason.

The Danatos had many hours' head start on us, but when we hit their backs, they had only just collapsed the first ring of Taíne Horet's defense. Their rear guard was positioned in the rocks and trees at the base of the ridge. Halfway down the descending path, Aleksander silently motioned his meager troop into a wedge, set himself at the apex, and gave the signal to charge. I soared from the heights and flew in just ahead of him. My first victim was still wide-eyed and gaping as I shoved his warm body off my sword and smashed another man in the face with my bare foot. Two other warriors fell back at the sight of me, the light of my Madonai body coloring their pale faces sallow. Roche rode up and skewered one of them in the back, and I spun in the air and swept my blade, taking the head of the second man. Enchantments lay in my hand like a second sword that night, impossibility and distance and bone-deep weariness of no more import to me than gnats to a mountain.

The battle was a bloody one. Between the raiding party, the remaining Yvor Lukash from Taíne Keddar, and the people of Taíne Horet, we had superior numbers. But most of Blaise's people were city-bred poor or peasants, strong, but untrained in combat, or freed slaves, trying to substitute vengeance and spirit for the weakness of their broken bodies, or old people, or children; there were a great number of children. And the others—the Manganar, Thrid, and Suzaini who dwelt in Taíne Horet—had hidden in these rocks for decades, hoping, waiting, planning, and training; but their enemies had been images from history, not superbly trained warriors wielding swords and spears with ferocious precision.

Indeed the Danatos fought as if possessed by the mad Gastai. They believed their prize very close—power next to the Emperor's own—and they recovered quickly from our surprise assault. The outer ring of warriors, so easily penetrated by our initial attack, hardened into a wall of steel, threatening to close about our wedge. They held us at bay while their lines pressed forward, orderly, methodical, scouring the valley, pressing men, women, children, goats, donkeys, and horses before them, killing any person who resisted.

Aleksander, seeming to be everywhere at once, molded and shaped his sixteen fighters, teaching and encouraging them even as he threw himself against the Danatos lines. But the Derzhi ranks refused to break. Our riders were too few, and when the Danatos' inner ring had captured or slaughtered those within their grasp, they would turn and crush our pitiful band like a lion's great paw smashing an annoying dog.

I strove to protect both Aleksander and Feyd—I could not afford to have my dreamer slain—and I killed any Derzhi within reach of my blade. Always I kept my eye out for Admet. I had not told the others of my suspicion, but I had sworn to myself that he would go on trial before I left the human world. If he had done what I believed, he would die for it.

“We've got to get through,” Aleksander shouted up at me as I slashed at a warrior threatening his back. It was difficult to see in the dark, the only light the wavering glare of the fires the Derzhi set as they passed. “Can you find us a way?”

“Done,” I cried. “Roche, you've got the Prince's back.”

I shot upward to look about, trying to make sense of things through the smoke and screams and flailing weapons. The three camps were in chaos, the sentries and guards who yet lived barely managing to hold their own as they retreated. The people of the valley hadn't enough horses to mount their defense, and the mounted Derzhi swept through the slow-footed fighters like fire through dry grass. Fifteen or twenty defenders fell for every Derzhi. I flew the length of the Derzhi front, trying to find some small gap, some weak spot where the ranks of disciplined Derzhi might be breached, hoping to discover some firm center where Aleksander might rally the frantic people and take advantage of his numbers.

A force of some twenty to thirty Thrid charged out of the burning groves to attack the Derzhi left flank, only to see half their number cut down in the first engagement. I showered the Derzhi with sparks I gathered from the fires, enabling a tattooed woman to rally the Thrid fighters. Soon, more joined her, and she began to form up a small line of resistance. I flew on.

Several of the Yvor Lukash fighters were trying to make a stand near the Suzaini encampment. The Palatine Marouf—Feyd's father—was off at the front of the battle. A small party of Derzhi had outflanked them and now threatened to wipe out their families. A Suzaini woman lay on the ground unmoving, bloody and exposed, and an old woman sat in the dirt wailing, trying to cover the pitiful remains with hands and skirts. Other women, responsible for their husbands' wealth, were trying to retrieve their children and their hoards of silver before a similar fate befell them.

A fresh wave of Derzhi swept out of the darkness, driving the Yvor Lukash fighters and the panicked women away from the Suzaini tents. A blood-smeared youth leaped out from behind a bush and slashed wildly at a Derzhi rider who was bearing down on a woman carrying two small boys. The youth didn't see a second Derzhi ride up behind him, sword raised.

“Mattei, behind you!” I dived into the fray, shoving my young friend to the ground and stabbing at the attacking warrior, while using my wings to sweep Mattei's target from his rearing mount. “Stay back, lad,” I cried as the unhorsed warrior scrabbled quickly to his feet. A few strokes later and the Derzhi choked on his own blood and fell to earth, trying to prevent his entrails escaping through the gaping hole I'd left in his belly.

I spun on my heel. Mattei was staring at me as he crept backward over the rocky ground. I reached out my hand to haul him up, feeling like smiling for the first time in hours. “Come on,” I said. “Let's get you someplace less dangerous.” But my simple gesture scribed his young face with mortal terror, and uttering a whimper, he scrambled to his feet and ran off into the darkness.

“Mattei, wait ...” No time to go after him. I had to hold back the attacking Derzhi while the Yvor Lukash fighters got the Suzaini women away.

Another sweep of the front showed me that the Thrid woman had positioned her fighters securely among the trees, and her archers and bold swordsmen had slowed the Derzhi advance and stretched the enemy's lines. A small victory, but the best prospect I'd seen. I raced back to Aleksander and Blaise, who were being sorely pressed by a Danatos second lord. The Derzhi noble was screaming at his men that the Kinslayer was among them.

“Go left!” I shouted, pointing the Prince toward the Thrid. “W' Assani's people hold the way.”

While I used fire and sword, wind and terror to prevent the Derzhi from closing ranks behind him, Aleksander fought his way toward the valiant Thrid. A half an hour later, a path of fallen Derzhi behind him, he broke through into the heart of the battle. From the center of the valley a murmuring tide of sound swelled to drown out the screams and shouts and the roar of the flames. “Aveddi!” The cries echoed from the cliffs, and soon the very shape of the combat changed. Outward pressure from the center halted the Derzhi advance, and before another hour had passed, the rear guard began to fall back toward the hills. Once there, they had to deal with me.

Every hour that I fought in my golden form I felt stronger. Yes, I was tired. Yes, I had a dozen bleeding gashes and punctures. Yes, I still felt a tearing fire in my side whenever I raised my right arm. But with every passing moment, my reactions grew faster, my strokes more powerful, my movements quicker and more sure. I had been born to wear that form of light, to fight such battles, to use the power I had been given to protect those who needed it. I could sense the slightest movement behind me, and I could hold a part of my mind outside the combat, using it to ready my weapons of enchantment. I could see with such clarity—the fighters at my hand, the shifting lines of combat, the dark, surging mass of Blaise's people. The bony outlaw himself was leading the right, with the two Manganar Yulai and Terlach beside him. The Thrid woman held the left, and in the center stood Aleksander, the Firstborn of Azhakstan, his red hair flying, fighting with the measured fury of a king defending his citadel. Behind his sword my child was safe, as was his own, but only if no Derzhi left this valley with the tale of its location. Let them fear me. And so I gave myself willingly to combat, and killed every warrior my hand could reach.

 

Everything wore the varied colors of blood—the dark, gore-soaked earth beneath my feet, my naked flesh smeared with red and rusty brown, even the rocks above and beside me, flushed with the scarlet dawn. Quiet had descended on the valley, but I hadn't noticed, for the battle raging in my veins had only now found its final release. I yanked my sword from the twitching body at my feet, then dropped to my knees and made sure of him, driving my knife into his heart. “Not my son, you bastard,” I said, the hoarse whisper that grated in my throat all the sound I could muster. Blood matted his dark beard and his striped haffai. His sword hilt slid from his limp hand, and I kicked the weapon away when I stood up again, as if to be sure he could not rise from the dead and bring more treachery into the world. “Never him.”

“Holy gods, Seyonne, what have you done?”

I whirled about and saw them standing there—Blaise, the stunned accuser, cradling one arm, his paint half washed away by sweat and blood, and gray-faced Elinor, her blue skirt stained and torn, a well-used sword at her side, her hand steadying her wounded brother. Elinor gazed at my last victim expressionless, as if the burden of horror that she already wore could not accept yet another portion. The sight of her there, in such a state, set off a firestorm in my soul.

“Tell me!” I bellowed. Flames burst from my hand and sword, and the two stepped backward, almost tumbling down the steep path. I summoned the dregs of my strength to restrain my fury.

“Please tell me ... Evan ...”

“He's well,” said Elinor. “Safe with Magda. Safe.”

Blaise was still staring at the dead man in the striped haffai. Heavy footsteps brought Roche and Gorrid to join him, their tired faces glazed with shock and dismay. And behind them, surveying the sea of corpses around me until his gaze rested on the dead man at my feet, came Aleksander.

“The devil has murdered Admet!” screamed Gorrid, drawing his sword, his face becoming a mask of hatred. “How many others of our own have fed his blood thirst?”

Aleksander reached out and stayed the outlaw's arm. “You cannot challenge him, Gorrid,” he said softly, stepping in between us. I held my weapon at the ready, the pounding of my blood vibrating the fouled blade in rhythm with my heart. “Look around.” No fewer than forty Derzhi warriors had felt my sword as they tried to escape the valley. The Prince nodded his head at the dead Suzaini and raised one eyebrow. “Will you tell us why?” His voice was calm and steady, but in his amber eyes ... He was afraid of me.

With a word and a thought, I shifted form, feeling the light go out of the world along with my golden radiance and my strength. Indescribable weariness settled in my bones. My body felt gray and heavy, my clothing restrictive, my senses crippled and dull. I tried to form an answer, the fewest possible words to tell them of Admet's prideful, treacherous bargain. But my tongue was confused, as if accustomed to another language, and my mind could not seem to shape the evidence into a sequence they might understand. As I struggled to speak, yet another man came staggering up the hill. The curling hair and beard named him Suzaini, and his broad shoulders identified him as Feyd well before we could see his face.

Feyd's breath was ragged when he stopped beside Admet's body. My dreamer's wide, dark eyes flew to mine.

“The betrayer,” I said, those two words all I could manage.

Feyd seemed to understand. He closed his eyes and said, “Gossopar forgive him. Such shame for Suza.” The young man wavered for a moment, and then gathered himself and bowed to me. “My honor is yours forever, holy lord.” Before he could come up again, he fell face forward into the dirt. I glimpsed a ragged, bloody hole in his back just as the world vanished.