Mythborn (33 page)

Lilyth thought him important, that was certain to him now. Cainan’s death would be dismissed against her larger need, which was… he shook his head in frustration. He simply did not know, likely because Cainan did not know.

He looked at Piter, his body full of Cainan’s vitality and essence and said, “You’re right, the hunger can be… overwhelming.”

Piter sneered as he said, “What do you command?”

“You never answered my question.” He meant the question about their reception with Lilyth, but he’d learned that when speaking with Piter, giving him less information often led to more truth. Plus, thanks to the Aeris Lord’s death, he had a good idea of what she would do. He just wanted to hear what the shade had to say.

Piter shrugged and replied, “I don’t know, Master. Lilyth does not share her plans with me.”

Arek moved closer to Piter, looking past him and at the great pyramid of Olympious. “I’m getting a little sick of being a pawn in everyone’s game.”

“About time,” murmured the shade. “I told you before, you were nothing but a sacrifice to them.”

Arek looked sidelong at Piter and then said, “I don’t trust you, but I know what Cainan said is true. If I die, you die. Therefore, it’s in your interest to keep me alive.”

“It has never occurred to me otherwise, Master.”

The deceit in Piter’s voice was easy to hear, as was the sarcasm, but Arek knew he was right. Cainan had believed the death of the master killed those he made, which meant Piter’s very existence depended on Arek’s survival. In that at least, they were aligned.

He squatted on his haunches and said, “Piter, perhaps it’s time we charted a different course.”

“What?” asked the shade of Piter, “storm Olympious, cast down the gods?” A small laugh followed. “You and I, an army of two.”

Just then a groan sounded, a sucking in of air that went on for far longer than normal lungs could bear. Arek and Piter turned, just in time to see Cainan shudder. His body convulsed, then gasped again as if drowning. Then, slowly, the eyes opened. They glowed an unearthly blue, without irises or pupils.

Arek stood slowly, watching as the Aeris Lord’s body shuddered yet again, but the tremors were dying down. Cainan, or the dark Aeris that was now Cainan, rose. It stood motionless for a moment, as if orienting itself to this new unlife, before slowly turning to face the young adept who had made it.

The dark Cainan bowed to Arek and in a hollow voice devoid of the lord’s earlier emotion said, “Master, I hunger.”

Arek turned to Piter and a slow smile spread across his face. “Now we’re three.”

Piter smiled back. “And so it begins.”

Fortitude

The depth of your commitment to life

is measured in the moments

When a stray thought can kill you.

-
          
Kensei Tsao, The Lens of Blades

Q
ueen Galadine looked down at the slice uncomprehendingly, her mind still numb with shock. It went cleanly through her leather jerkin near the top of her thigh. More blood welled up, looking black in the dim light of the cavern as it soaked into her softclothes. There was something she had to do… something important before she lost consciousness. If she let the blackness take hold, she knew she wouldn’t wake up again.

Grabbing her belt, she undid the clasp then made a loop and placed her dagger’s scabbard under it. She quickly reclasped the belt, then twisted the scabbard until the belt loop tightened on her upper leg. Her hands moved automatically even as another part of her watched with detached amazement, marveling at her methodical exactness.

The black blood slowed to a trickle. Before tightening it further, she looked to her left and grabbed the wad of cloth she didn’t remember ripping from a dead man’s shirt. Loosening the makeshift tourniquet, she quickly stuffed the bandage under the belt and then tightened it again. The hardest part was the last pull-tight knot, the bolt of pain so pure and intense she almost bit through the tongue of leather she’d held in her mouth to keep from crying out. Then it was over.

She fell back exhausted, fading into and out of awareness. At some point, her sticky hands gingerly surveyed her own handiwork as she gulped air. The throbbing with each heartbeat meant she’d stopped the bleeding for now, at least it felt that way.

She sat up and had a moment of acute clarity, her eyes wide. How long had she been unconscious? Her leg demanded attention and she pulled the jerkin carefully apart to inspect it with a critical eye, not knowing how much time she’d have before passing out again.

The blade had bit deep, but mainly through muscle. The only certain way to stop the bleeding would be fire, and that was not an option at this moment. Her other choice was geranium oil or even rose petals crushed into the wound. Either would act as an effective clotting agent.

Yevaine looked around the cavern, assessing her chances. Just her luck, she thought wryly, no rose bush in sight when you needed one. An involuntary laugh burst forth, sounding strange in this dark place, bringing with it fresh tears as her leg jostled from the motion.

Their trip from Haven back to reinforce Bara’cor had been generally uneventful, with one exception. Captain Kalindor had made an ass of himself trying to keep Yevaine in the city, claiming her importance as regent of Dawnlight outweighed her duty, as if she would stay behind while the men rushed off to battle. Leave it to them to find an excuse to leave her behind, but she would have none of it.

He’d gone so far as to order her to stay, to which she had reminded him of her rank and that she would no sooner remain behind than he would offer his other eye. She’d been tempted to order him to stay as just rewards for his impudence, but Kalindor’s mapsense was invaluable to the team. So a suitably highbrow impasse had emerged, filled with decorum and grace.

Pointedly avoiding the subject, they had filled their ranks with men born of the high steppes of Frost Dawn, northern lands where climbing was as essential as walking. Kalindor liked to brag that they had been suckled by mountain goats. Judging by their smell the queen did not doubt him. Still, for the hard work of climbing her handpicked squad had no equal.

In the end, both had decided to ignore the other and accompany the team heading back to Bara’cor. Of course, each stubbornly believed they knew what was right for the kingdom. Only the fact that the leader of Haven’s Praetorians, Commander Siel, had trained at the Galadine House of Arms left them the choice of being able to leave at all. Under his and Ellis Tir’s watchful eyes, the regents of Haven would cooperate. Spaiten, still held in the jails of Haven, would answer for his crimes in due time but getting back to her husband with reinforcements had taken priority above all else.

So the next morning saw each show up at the appointed time of departure, outfitted and ready, with nothing more than a “Captain” and “Your Grace” shared between them. The queen’s party, for she still held rank, numbered no more than twenty men and women. They were to scout ahead and fix ropes, allowing a company of men-at-arms to follow. The going would be tough, no place for heavy armor or large weapons, so they had dressed light.

Her only concession had been the Aeonian House blade, Falken. Straight, double-edged, and keen enough to shave the hairs off an arm, Falken had been part of her family since its forging during the Demon Wars. It now sat within easy reach, but everything else they had lay strewn about in a shattered mess. Yevaine fingered the slice through her stiff leather jerkin in anger, as if its betrayal had been a matter of spite and not an ill-timed riposte she’d missed.

“I’m happy you came,” a voice rasped out of the darkness.

It came from her right, and could only be Kalindor. She levered herself up a bit, searching. A small movement caught her eye and she could see the white of his one good eye looking at her, closer than she’d expected. “You okay?”

“I’ll live. More than can be said for most of our men,” he replied gruffly.

The queen looked around. “Sound off. How many?”

She heard a faint “one” from the gloom, then a “two.” When the count was finally done, it was a depressing six, including herself and Kalindor. Not an impressive show considering this had been their first encounter with the things infesting the underdark of Bara’cor.

They had come seeping through the very cracks in the walls, black mists that solidified into fearful creatures, not unlike those from bedtime fairytales she recalled reading to Niall when he was just a boy. Why such things were turned into a tale for children made little sense to her now. These demons were far worse than any nightfright, and she did not relish the idea of facing them again.

“How far behind is the rest of the Company?” she murmured, her tongue feeling thick in her mouth.

“You need water.” Kalindor scrambled over to her, unstoppering a canteen.

“I need blood,” was her curt reply, but the cool water did taste wonderful as it spilled down her throat. “Thank you.”

Kalindor sighed. “They’ll be coming slower.”

She knew the men behind them were carrying the bulk of the supplies and medicines to relieve Bara’cor and that would make their pace a matter of careful planning. “At least the first Step is passed and ropes replaced.”

She referred to the place known as the Giant’s Step, because it was a rock face that went vertically up to the position they now occupied. They’d come upon the lowest Step with its climbing ropes cut and massed at the bottom in a tangled heap. It had taken them time to scale the cliff face and properly refix the ropes. There was another such Step leading farther up, but this one’s rope ladder still looked to be in place. Kalindor seemed to believe they were past the worst of it, and rarely was his mapsense wrong.

“These things, if they’ve infested the fortress…” she began.

“I know.” He tried to lever her to sit up more, but stopped when she gasped in pain.

“My leg.”

He looked down, cursing at the dark, then called softly to the men to gather on his position. At his signal another man struck flint to steel and relit a small torch discarded in the fight. The area they were in came into sharp focus as the orange light took hold of the oil-soaked rag and illuminated the place of their last stand.

Yevaine’s handiwork elicited a soft whistle of appreciation from the captain. “Well, you saved your own life, judging by all the blood. I don’t know if the torch fire is going to get any steel hot enough to seal it.” He looked at her, his face mirroring his concern.

She pressed her lips together against the pain. “Jesse had a gutbag with her…can you find it?” The medicine satchels their corpsman affectionately referred to as gutbags were made from the stomachs of goats. She hoped they’d find Jesse too, but in case the medic hadn’t survived they all had a soldier’s knowledge of basic field aid.

The men used the torch to light a few more, then one hurried off to search. Yevaine watched them disappear into the gloom, then took stock of her surroundings. The disarray hinted at by the shadows and silhouettes was now given harsh truth by torchlight. Body parts lay strewn about, ripped from sockets and cast aside. The queen had a hard time understanding the scene, the wanton destruction spattering the area with the blood and gore of her men. In a way it was so lurid it didn’t look real.

She’d wondered at their survival. It seemed likely they’d been left for dead. Looking at her men was mute testament. Each was covered head to toe in black blood and bits of bone and flesh. If she looked half as bad it was doubtful anyone would have believed her lungs could still draw air. Still, the question about their survival nagged her and the fact that they had not been possessed was stranger still. As far as she could tell, every man who had fallen was accounted for amongst their dead.

“What drove them off?” she asked softly, her hushed tones paying homage to the sanctity of the ground as her men’s lives lay pooled about them.

There was silence, awkward enough that it drew her eyes up from the scene of carnage. The men stared at her, clearly unwilling to answer. She turned to Kalindor and raised an eyebrow.

“Y-you did… Your Grace,” one of the men stammered.

“Me?” she didn’t remember that.

“Blue fire from your blade. It lit the dark and those mist things burned.”

Dalaran, she recalled his name now and said, “Sergeant, did you see this for yourself?”

He nodded vigorously. “Aye, Your Grace. You screamed as the crowned demon pierced your leg. No one could get to you in time. You fell—”

Kalindor held up a hand. “Do you not remember?”

Yevaine thought about it. The mention of the crowned demon should have brought back a name, or at the very least an image. Nothing came to mind, and certainly no memory of blue fire used against these demons. She met Kalindor’s gaze and shook her head.

Something else was going on, and it was the captain’s turn to look uncomfortable. His eye dropped from hers seemingly to inspect the ground between them.

She grabbed his hand and said, “Out with it.”

Kalindor sighed, and if expressions could say he wished he were anywhere but here, the queen thought the look on his face was more eloquent than any words. Softly, almost to himself, he said, “The demon called himself the Morningstar.” He paused to see if this jogged her memory at all.

She squeezed his hand again, demanding he continue. Whatever Kalindor was about to say called to something held deep within her, a truth she did not want to hear. A pit had formed in her stomach, a dread she could not put name or face to.

“He said… he said our king…” Kalindor could not continue, hanging his head down as his fingers tightened on the queen’s hand. “Forgive me, Your Grace.”

By the Lady, the demon had said her husband had fallen! The fight, her stand and fall, the grief washing out of her in blue flames… it all came back with a sudden gut-wrenching blow that seemed to take what little air she had left.

“Bernal,” she gasped, her indrawn breath catching in her throat.

Captain Kalindor closed his arms around her, encircling her in an embrace meant to succor and console. The shock of realization left her body numb as her mind detached itself again, watching from a place where nothing hurt. Even the pain as his hug dragged her injured leg across the shattered ground didn’t rise to the point where she took any notice. The demon said Bernal had fallen to his blade. She remembered it now. She remembered her husband was dead.

She heard the other man come back and saw he had the corpsman’s bag in hand. Of Jesse there was no sign. Her vision went gray as Kalindor laid her back down, turning his attention to her leg and the tourniquet. He would fix the wound, she knew. They all were exceedingly good at living. They would fix her and ask that she persevere, offering platitudes like “life goes on,” or “it was Fate’s dice.” It’s what soldiers did. It was all they knew.

The gray turned to black, but she could still hear. The pressure was released, and a sudden warmth flooded down her leg. She wondered if it was her blood, or at least what little was left of it. If there was to be a purpose to her living, let it be to slay the demon who took her husband from her. Yevaine breathed out, a vow without words. Bara’cor would not be both their graves.

Then blackness mercifully took her and she felt no more.