Trial of Intentions (75 page)

He might not have that plan yet, but he'd let Sool die believing he was more prepared than he was. “I won't leave the Raolyn behind,” he assured her. Sool's smile would be something he'd remember a long time.

She then nodded and lowered her hands. “Let's get to it.” She didn't linger for a farewell word, or a final look around her home, or any other last preparation. She'd only wanted to bind him to a promise. That done, she walked out, ready to face death.

He went out after her, finding the clouds had broken in the east, allowing daylight to stream down. The rays of sun seemed foreign, but shimmered on the cold, dew-covered ground. Steam rose in thin streams as the soil warmed.

He followed her to the street, the gravity of the moment filling him. She came to a stop in front of the six Bar'dyn, who stared at her with reasoned indifference. In the light of the sun, their muscled bodies hinted at menace.

He raised a hand to the branding on his own chest, so much like that of his band of Quiet.

She waited with her back to him. She might expect him to make a formal declaration of her crimes, perhaps call them out loudly to draw the town in to witness the execution, make her a public example. That had been the way of it for other names on the list.

He would do her a final favor. He'd kill her unexpectedly, so that the moment wouldn't linger, and her people wouldn't have to watch. He'd later explain that he'd feared she had some weapon or insurgency planned, and he'd had to kill her before things got out of control.

Kett drew his blade, catching a glint of sun off its flat edge.

Just as he began to imagine scratching the last name off his list, dozens of Raolyn stepped from behind houses and buildings and trees. They didn't rush. But they came on, holding implements used to turn the ground or cultivate what crops could be grown in the rocky soil.

Lliothan and the Bar'dyn unsheathed their blades.

Sool didn't start or turn at any of this. She stood still as her people walked toward them.

Then, without a shout or call, the Raolyn crowd rushed in, their large forks and picks and shovels raised. The Bar'dyn whirled to face them. Several of the Raolyn were cut down so effortlessly that Kett despaired of countless, senseless deaths. They would all die. Their inexperience at combat—with farming tools, no less—would fail against Bar'dyn training and steel.

In those moments, the sight of Inveterae fighting back stirred him in a way he couldn't explain. And he saw in his mind the painting of himself Sool had just showed him.

He charged past the Raolyn woman, his sword in hand, and plunged it into the neck of one of his Bar'dyn brothers. The Quietgiven slumped to the ground. And fire erupted in his chest.
Abandoning gods, is this because of my oath?
It left him weak and trembling.

To his right, Lliothan cursed. “Betrayer.” His old friend turned and brought a great hammer stroke down on him. Kett managed to get his blade up in time to ward off the blow, but the power of it knocked him to the ground.

Lliothan raised his blade again, gripping it with both hands. Before he could strike a second time, two Raolyn farmers tackled him to the ground.

Kett stood, heaving breath into the cold morning air. Around him, dozens of Inveterae had swarmed the five remaining Bar'dyn. A few of the Quiet were on the ground, grappling for their lives. Grunts and the scrape of metal rose into the morning. Blood flowed onto the ground with the dew, taking a bright fiery hue in the sunlight.

Faster than he would have thought, four of the Bar'dyn lay motionless, their bodies still taking the sharp ends of tools, as if death wasn't enough justice for their former villainy.

The sound of pounding feet drew Kett's attention. He whirled again, preparing to take a charge. Instead, he watched as Lliothan disappeared over the hill at a dead run. Bar'dyn could run faster than a horse. Much faster than a Gotun.

A sickening dread filled his stomach as he thought about Marckol and Neliera. They were still being held by the Jinaal.

In that long moment, he felt something he hadn't before … godless. Because no father or mother should ever abandon their child, not even the First Ones.

What have I done? What do I do now?

After the Bar'dyn disappeared over the rise at the far end of the vale, he turned back toward Sool. “You signaled them with open windows and lamplight,” he said.

She nodded. “We've been tracking your approach for days. News of the executions has spread over the roads of the Bourne faster than you were able to travel them. We decided the time for separation was now.”

“But what if I'd…”

Sool smiled—a rare enough thing in the Bourne that it caught him off guard. “I had a feeling that once the attack began, you'd be on the right side of it. But,” and she looked back up the road, “we hadn't expected one to escape. It changes our path.”

“It changes
my
path,” he corrected. “I have to go back. If I don't go, they may decide annihilation is the only way to deal with Inveterae. Maybe I can convince them that killing a few Bar'dyn was my way of earning your trust. To get more information about the exodus. Besides, I've only learned a little of the Jinaal plan for crossing the Pall.”

“You'll fail. And you've already done most of what they asked. They won't have any use for you. And you'll arrive as a betrayer. We should begin now, spread the word, gather, move south.” Sool gestured for the others to remove the Bar'dyn bodies from the road.

He sheathed his sword. “We'll meet more Quietgiven. What will we say to them? And if we
do
reach the Veil, how will we cross it?” He shook his head. “Our patience may have its price, but without it there's no hope of success.”

Sool smiled with understanding. “Go get your little ones. But we can't go with you. Raolyn will be killed on sight after word of this spreads. We'll prepare to leave, and gather the other Inveterae houses.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “Be careful. Remember your responsibility to
all
of us.”

Without another word, he set out under the morning sun. He strode briskly westward, his shadow preceding him up the road.

 

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

A Clash of Wills

It stands to reason that any force which must traverse space may be met, counteracted even.

—Sheason battle corollary and preface to simultaneity, also known as synchronous resonance

V
endanj brought his hands together, clasping them before him as he strode toward Roth. He'd remove the League head first, then deal with the rest. Roth smiled as Losol stepped into Vendanj's path and held up his blade. Around them civilians fought leaguemen or Recityv footmen or even each other. Many had already fallen from their lack of skill or the inferiority of their weapons. The sounds of combat and struggle enveloped him, but seemed distant as he thrust his hands toward Losol. He sent a violent burst of resonance at the man. It shot fast, little more than a distortion in the air.

Losol held his sword out straight, and the force of Vendanj's attack traveled around him, like a river current flowing around the prow of a ship. He remained untouched. A half moment later, rocks exploded in the stone wall behind Losol, as the resonant push found a surface.

Vendanj stared in shock and concern. Losol's smile tightened.

Silent gods, he's found a Talendraal.

The leagueman moved swiftly toward him, his sword still held out like a shield. Vendanj knew of these weapons, forged with the power to deflect a rendering of Will, but he'd never encountered one. There existed only one place where such a weapon would be necessary or allowed—the Bourne.

He drew his long knife and set his feet. Losol came on, feinting a strike then kicking up with his left leg. Vendanj took a hard boot in the gut, and dropped to the ground. The whistle of a sword's edge sliced through the air, and he rolled. The ringing sound of steel hitting stone rose just behind him.

He kicked hard at the warlord's shins. The man fell to his knees with a painful groan. Then Vendanj was up and whirling, ready to end this. Impossibly, Losol had already gotten to his feet and swung his blade at Vendanj's chest.

The sword edge tore through his garment and skin. Blood flowed free and warm down his front. He stumbled back, checking the wound, and looked up in time to avoid a second strike that would have met his throat.

He then slammed his fists together, causing his own flesh to split and blood to spatter into the air. With a word, he fragmented the blood into a fine mist and whipped it toward the warlord like a stinging, abrasive funnel. The man flailed at the biting blood-wind, deflecting some, but not all, his skin peppered with deep pricks that began to bleed.

But Losol smiled through the red mask that became his face, and extended his sword again as a shield. The wind parted, and he came on hard.

Vendanj was weak and lost momentary focus. He backpedaled, seeking time to consider a countermove. Losol's face twisted with delight, and he surged forward. Vendanj lifted his knife again, and began to draw a greater rendering of Will than he'd used for some time. He was through with this! But before the other could reach him, a dark flash erupted in front of Vendanj as steel struck steel. Grant stood between him and Losol, a look of calculated violence on his face.

“Find Braethen,” Grant shouted, “and get off the plaza.”

Vendanj glared at Losol. He hated not finishing a fight, especially this one. But Braethen still lay unconscious and helpless in the midst of the fallen Sheason. And killing Losol wouldn't stop the fighting that had broken out all around them. The League itself needed to fall, and that meant dealing with Roth, who was now nowhere to be seen.

As Grant and Losol began to fight, Vendanj hurried to Braethen's side. The sodalist drew ragged breaths, but he
was
breathing.

“Braethen.”

The sodalist opened his eyes, looking disoriented. Vendanj showed him a satisfied smile, then sheathed for him the Blade of Seasons. He folded Braethen over his shoulder, and looked for a gap in the fighting. Only the entrance to Solath Mahnus through the Wall of Remembrance appeared open. He moved fast in its direction, trying not to think about how this civil war had just put everything so much further away.

*   *   *

Helaina stood in the middle of her city's grand plaza, surrounded by the dead, the dying, and the living who were trying to kill the rest. Civilians swung bad weapons badly. Shouts and clamor filled the air. Maybe she could still avert all-out civil war. But she'd need Grant's help.

She caught sight of him locked in battle with the League's new war leader. Her estranged husband held his own, but this warlord fought with a dangerous elegance, his movements almost hypnotic.

Losol brought his greatsword around in a vicious arc. Grant easily stepped out of the way, as though he anticipated the attack. It was the same with almost every attempt Losol made. Grant had spent twenty years studying the art of battle, learning more deeply the mechanics of the body with weapons and position and stance.

But each time Grant prepared to counterattack, another leagueman was there, hammering at him, too. Man after man went down as he stepped back far enough to keep the odds even. But it meant little progress against Losol himself. The Mal seemed pleased that his Jurshah was doing their part, and annoyed he didn't have the fight to himself.

At one point, Grant shuffled back and went at a whole group of leaguemen, wading through them. It appeared almost choreographed, as four men fell in mere moments. When he stood and looked back at Losol, the war leader nodded and finally held up a hand, signaling for his men to fight elsewhere. Grant advanced on Losol with a determined look on his face.

They locked in combat, trading blows without pause. Each went down more than once, but rolled to his feet like an acrobat. Before long, a few leaguemen, who hadn't seen Losol's command to leave them alone, waded in. Grant's face hardened, more focused. And he began a series of sweeping turns, swords flashing out, dropping the newcomers without giving ground to Losol.

His strikes were quick, efficient, pulling through a man's throat or manhood, whatever was easiest and most debilitating. A few of the attackers caught his flesh with their steel, but the cuts were small. It was the most amazing thing Helaina had ever seen, watching him fight. He crouched, lunged, all in a continuous series of turns. But the numbers against him were rising again, and this time Losol didn't call his men off.

“General,” she called, “there!” She pointed toward Grant.

Van Steward rushed to double the attack on Losol. Together, her general and her husband pushed the man back. Van Steward fought the leaguemen. Grant, Losol. When Van Steward whistled in several more of his men, the warlord offered a conciliatory smile, one that spoke not of defeat but
postponement,
and quickly disappeared into the throng.

When she turned, she saw Artixan helping several women and their children to safety inside a building fronting the plaza. He moved people aside with a wave of his hand, showing little regard for League, solider, or civilian.

When Van Steward and Grant returned to her side, she raised a hand, pointing. “Get me up there.”

Grant followed her outstretched arm to the top of the Wall of Remembrance. “They won't listen to you,” he shouted. “They won't even hear you.”

“I'll take care of that.” It was Artixan, coming up behind her.

She got moving as fast as her old, tired legs would take her. Van Steward and Grant ran just ahead, brandishing their weapons. Artixan followed close at her heels. It sickened her that twice they jumped over the bodies of fallen citizens. But she remained focused.

They passed through the entrance into the inner courtyard, cut sharply left, and stopped at the base of the wall. Grant hunkered down, mumbling under his breath, and Helaina put her feet on his shoulders. With her hands against the wall for balance, she told Grant to stand. A moment later, she could see over the top of the wall into the plaza. Helaina then hauled herself up with great difficulty, and carefully stood, overlooking the violence and growing number of dead or wounded in and around the great square.