The Griever's Mark (The Griever's Mark series Book 1) (33 page)

Archers fan out along the rest of the wall, interspersed with compact catapults, their round metal buckets secured at the end of their thick wooden arms. Heavy stones, glowing ever so faintly with Drift-energy, lie ready in the buckets and in piles.

Below and behind us, in the city, soldiers wait with swords and spears. Hopefully the fight will not come to them. If it does, if Martel’s army breaks through the wall to reach this last line of defense, chances are that Tornelaine is already lost.

I glance at Rood, who stands on the other side of Horik. Rood wears a gleaming, unblemished silver breastplate. Even if that didn’t mark him as new to battle, the nervous twitch of his fingers would, as would the barely-healed tattoo peeking from under the neck rim of his breastplate. So. A Runish tattoo. One, no doubt, of protection or strength. My own tattoo burns in shameful response on the back of my neck.

Rood meets my scrutiny with a look of cold disdain. His twitching fingers go still, and he looks resolutely forward.

From across the cluster of Drifters, I notice Heborian glancing our way, his worry betrayed only by the scrunch of his tattoo around his right eye. Heborian did not want Rood among the Drifters, not only because the boy is inexperienced, but also because we have the most dangerous assignment. We will try to draw the Seven off, away from the city so that Martel’s troops will have to fight a more human battle.

We wait.

* * *

Martel’s army crests the hills with the dawn, the war machines like black fingers against the rising sun. Heborian’s army will have the sun in its eyes. I wonder who timed this. Martel? Belos? Straton? I wish I knew what is going on in that strange alliance.

The army moves like a snake, coiled and tight. I can pick out the Seven, wearing the black of war, controlling the fringes of the army, forcing the serpent of men to coil more and more tightly. Where is Belos in that mass?

The front of the army halts on the broad field beyond the city wall, the serpent shape dissolving into sudden fluidity as the middle and rear sweep around like water, spreading wide and deep, reaching almost to the rolling west of the city orchard. They have stopped beyond the range of Heborian’s archers. The red banners of House Deveral, Martel’s house, wave at the edges, a challenge to the blue and black atop Tornelaine’s gates.

I can’t stop my gasp when Straton appears, hovering in the air not twenty feet from Heborian. I have never seen the Drift used this way. Neither, apparently, have Heborian’s Drifters. Some gasp like I do; some even step back. Straton smiles condescendingly, enjoying our surprise.

But it’s Heborian’s turn to smile when Straton bounces into a sparking net of energy and floats back with a hiss of pain. Of all Heborian’s inventions, this one amazes me most. I cannot begin to explain it except to say it’s like a barrier brought into the physical world. I always thought the Drift had certain rules and limitations, that I understood them, but Heborian, it seems, is more creative than I am.

Straton recovers quickly, giving no further acknowledgment of the net. His black robes are edged with the bright light of dawn, his silver shoulder guards gleaming. He looks down his nose at Heborian, forcing the king to crane his neck. Heborian, dark hair braided down the side, his golden armor flashing a reflection of the pink dawn, does not look intimidated. Pride spikes through me. Few would stand like that before Straton.

“Your terms?” Heborian demands.

Straton’s answer is loud and imperious: “Complete surrender. You will yield yourself to Belos, and your people will be his. In exchange, we will not tear this city stone from stone.” Straton smiles before he adds, “Or your son limb from limb.”

Heborian, I’m sure, expected as much, so there is no hesitation when he answers, “No.”

“I couldn’t hear that,” Straton lies. Everyone heard it.

“I won’t parley with you. Be gone!”

The power in Heborian’s voice makes my nape prickle. I begin to understand the will and resolve of a man who sailed from Rune to Kelda and took what he wanted.

Straton’s lip curls. “Today, Heborian, you will pay for trying to renege on your deal, and you will lose
both
your children to Belos. And, you—”

My spine stiffens as Straton turns his gaze to me. “What do you think Belos does with traitors?”

I raise my chin, ignoring the spider of fear crawling over me. “I will find you, Straton. Mark me, I will.”

He gives me a measuring look. “Why would you serve the man who sold you?”

Anger flares in my chest. Straton knows, has always known, my story. They have all lied to me. Before I can think of a retort, Straton vanishes with a rush of air. How like him to throw in the last word and disappear. I will find him. I will kill him. I will accomplish that much before I die today.

Martel’s army buzzes with activity, and the distant clank of metal gears tells me they are cranking the catapults. Heborian shouts orders to the soldiers manning Tornelaine’s own, smaller machines, and men recheck their levers.

The noise of orders and cranking machines dulls to a hum in my ears as the huge arms of Martel’s catapults spring upright. The first massive stones that fly from the distant machines disappear into the blinding sunrise, reappearing just before impact. The crack of stone on stone and the vibration under my feet makes me duck instinctively. Others do the same around me.

On the field below, the men lash the oxen to drag their machines closer.

In the buckets of Heborian’s own catapults, the Drift-charged stones glow faintly. At a shout, Heborian’s men trigger the machines, slinging the charged stones into the army below. Several fall short, exploding into the ground in a spray of dirt, carving craters the oxen cannot cross. Two charged stones bounce into the teeming mass, their explosions sending men flying like sticks in a children’s game.

It doesn’t take long for the earth to start rumbling. I trace the tremors to the blotch of black that marks the Seven. My legs vibrating with the shudders of earthmagic, I dart a look at Heborian. When will he give the order? He ignores us. He’s stalling. He doesn’t want to risk us. Or perhaps he doesn’t want to risk his son.

Around Heborian, the Wardens’ faces are still with concentration. Even Bran, Aron, and Clitus have that distant look of working earthmagic.

A wind rises over the city with a whistle and swirl of dust and debris. As the wind whips over us, a Drifter behind me slams into my back, crushing me against the wall. I brace myself with straining arms as he squirms heavily behind me. I work an eye to the arrow slot to see the wind sweep over the army, bowing them like grass.

With an abrupt shriek, the wind reverses, screaming toward the wall. It reverses again, sweeping toward the army. The fighting currents whip dirt into the air until even the sun is diffused in the dusty haze. I bury my nose and mouth in the crook of my arm, breathing through the fabric of my shirt to keep the dust from my lungs. My eyes water from the grit.

Bursts of energy fizzle against Heborian’s net. The blows shift away from Heborian, searching for weak points. I seethe with impatience. The net may cover the whole of Tornelaine, but how long can it hold up to this barrage? And how long before the Seven find the hidden gap? When they break through, we will lose our advantage.

I lose track of time as the dizzying winds and the rumbling, splitting earth force me to huddle among the other Drifters. The catapults clank into firing position again and again. Men bark orders. Steel boots scrape and thump along the stone wall. Close around me, metal breastplates and chainmail scratch against stone as the Drifters shift.

Then the fires start.

Heborian’s catapults go first, their wooden arms igniting. The wind tugs the flames back and forth, spreading the fire to Heborian’s blue and black banners, licking over the men as they dive away, yelling. The flames vanish abruptly, leaving smoking, blackened timbers and the drifting ash of ruined banners.

I can feel nothing of the inner currents of earthmagic, of what the Seven are doing, or the Wardens, but seeing the scale of this power, Drift-work looks small and petty.

Next come the flaming arrows, each of them shot cold then exploding with fire as they sail over the wall. Men scream in the courtyard below. I hear the long cry and sudden silence of a man falling from the wall to the stones below. I chance a look through the arrow slot. Martel’s army is inching closer. Then I see Martel himself.

He lumbers to the front of his force, body unnaturally large, his shoulders disproportioned. What has Belos done to him? Martel grabs a spear from a nearby soldier, who recoils from him, as all his men do. Martel rears back and hurls the spear. It flies with incredible speed and precision, winging to the top of the wall, straight for Heborian.

Heborian ducks, and the spear flies over him to clatter against the roof tiles of a nearby house. That throw was impossible.

Martel rages at the front of his army, clawing at his chest. No, his mind is not his own.

“Heborian!” I yell, but my voice is lost in the wind and the chaos of screaming men. I promised to wait for his command, we all did, but he is pushing that promise too far. Will he wait until Belos’s men are scaling the wall? All this risk to protect his son one moment longer?

To the west, beyond the dust, metal glints in the sun.

My breath catches as the reinforcements charge over the hills to slam into the rear of Martel’s army. Chaos is instantaneous. The field swarms and shifts, breaking here and there into isolated fights. I search for the black spot of the Seven and find them at the fringe, edging away from the fighting. Is Belos among them?

With the distraction of the new conflict, now is the time to surprise them.

“We must move!” I shout over the twang of bows as Heborian’s archers fire against Martel’s troops. The black splotch of the Seven shifts away, gathered tight. A perfect target.

“We have to wait for our order!” shouts Rood, his voice high with fear.

“He’s right!” adds one of the Drifters, a man with Runish tattoos on his face and hands. “The king said—”

I glare at the man. “Will you hide behind that? Now is the time!”

“She’s right!” shouts Horik. “Prepare!”

I see Rood’s jaw harden, but then I forget him. He can cower here if he wants. There won’t be a better chance.

Easing along my mooring, I let the world around me dissolve into the chaotic, swirling energies of the Drift. With so much earthmagic surrounding me, with the elements so strong, I feel myself tugged and pummeled by them. The wild breath of wind. The deep, angry rumble of earth. The madness of fire as it seeks something, anything to burn. I have never felt this within the Drift. I close myself to all of it. This is no time for curiosity.

I drift through the hidden gap in Heborian’s net, rushing over the surging battlefield toward the seething energies of the Seven. I spot Theron and feel a mixture of regret and anger. Of all of them, he is the only one I cared for. But even he lied to me. He could have told me, at any time, where I came from. I turn away. He doesn’t matter.

I find Straton by his tightly coiled energy, his position far from the arrows and swords. I ease along my mooring to appear behind him, my Drift-spear light and ready in my hand.

I should just stab him in the back, but I can’t quite bring myself that low. Because that is what he would do.

I whip my spear to get his attention. Straton spins with a shout, and I sweep my spear toward his neck. He throws a blast of energy at me, and I dive away from it, rolling and rising with my spear. I lunge. He vanishes. I tense for his reappearance. When I feel him behind me, I grab his arm and wrench him into the Drift with me.

His energy strains against mine, ripping away bit by bit until he breaks free. His energy form flares bright, dangerous, and I dive into the safety of my mooring.

I roll and skid under a lacy canopy of branches and white blossoms. How far did I go? Understanding clicks—the orchard—a second before Straton’s boot catches me in the jaw. Pain explodes; my teeth snap together. The white blossoms of the apple trees jerk and sway above me. A blow to my chest drives the air from my lungs and knocks me to my back. I whip my spear blindly through the air. Straton leaps away, his dark robes tangling around the blade with a sound of ripping cloth. I scramble up.

A sudden, deep rumble of the earth nearly shakes me to the ground again. The sound of cracking stone stabs into my ears. I look to Straton in shock, not expecting such power from him, but he’s lost his balance as well.

He laughs, catching himself against a tree. “Did you know he was so strong?”

I stare at him dumbly.

Straton’s blond eyebrows twitch together. “You don’t know, do you? I wondered why you hadn’t come for him. I never thought you a coward. Stupid, maybe, but not a coward.”

His words dance and flick around me. I cannot make sense of them, and I am dizzy with disbelief, with denial, and with faint, wild hope. “What—”

Straton’s chin sets with that condescending look of his. “You really don’t know.”

The high, awful sound of splitting rock echoes from beyond the orchard.

Straton shakes his head, taunting me. “Stupid child, your lover is no Earthmaker, at least not fully. Belos brought him through the Drift, into the Dry Land.”

I am frozen, my skin tight with gooseflesh. When I find my voice, I can only manage, “He’s—alive?”

Straton shrugs. “More or less.”

Numb, stupid with shock, I pull myself into the Drift and fly back to the battle. I am dizzy, frantic.

The seething mass of energies almost hides him, but I find him near the front, because I will always find him.

A swirl of energy, power wilder and more primal than any I have ever seen. I fill to bursting with mad joy.

He is alive.

But both my joy and my energy drain away like water when I see the Leash, not the usual white, but black and thick, sick and oily, anchored deep within him.

Chapter 35

I EASE ALONG my mooring to appear behind him where he stalks the battlefield, his movements a sensuous blend of grace and power. His shirt hangs in tattered, bloody strips, and I glimpse lashes and deep bruises along his exposed skin.