The Guardian (53 page)

He rolled, tasting dirt and failure in his mouth, and saw hooves stamp around his head. He tried to turn from them, to pick himself up, but they pressed too close and he could only flinch as men dismounted and a blade pricked against his throat. He saw his chariot overturned, and his charioteer dragged off screaming by the runaway team. He felt like weeping. He forgot his hurt arm and his indignity as someone said, “We’ll let you live. Awhile, at least, do you submit. Gailard told us not to kill too many.”

Another said, “Look at that armor—he’ll fetch a handsome ransom. He must be a chieftain of some kind.”

The first—the one, he saw, who’d cut the traces—said, “What’s your name?”

“Egor Dival.” He rose awkwardly, careful to keep his hands in clear sight. “I am commander of the army of Danant.”

The young man laughed. “A fine prize, eh? So, Egor Dival, do you submit?”

The taste of defeat was ashen in his mouth. He nodded—what choice else?—and looked past the stamping ponies to where his force was cut down. Those few who lived ran in panic. The way back was closed by Highlanders who raced toward the gate, and those who sought refuge in the countryside beyond were plucked by clan arrows, or
pursued by groups of yelling Highlanders. This was, he realized, a carefully planned ambush, and silently cursed Talan for accepting the Vachyn’s advice.

“I submit,” he said.

R
oark smiled and said, “Hold him. Two men, eh? Take him back to Ellyn and guard him.”

Then he urged his Quan onward. The gate was open and the Highlander ponies were quick enough to go through and hold it. And for Ellyn’s love he’d do that. He shouted for his riders to follow him, and waved for those on foot to run after, and raced toward the gate.

Arrows rained from the sky, and Roark lifted his buckler to protect his head. He was the first through. Soldiers clad in plate armor faced him and he smashed his sword against the first helm as a blade swung at the pony. The animal screamed as the edge slashed across its neck and began to buck. It reared, and Roark dropped from the saddle and hacked again, and saw the man fall even as the Quan, supported by the Devyn, came screaming past the open portal and set to slaughtering the Danant men.

He took a blow on his shield and cut another man down, and shouted orders that sent clansmen running to settle wedges against the gate, blocking it open that the rest might pour through. Then he looked about. Secure the walls, Gailard had said, then move into the city, toward the palace. He saw a flight of steps leading to the ramparts and howled for his men to follow.

W
e came to the North Gate as tattered beggars fleeing the confusion and Shara spoke harsh, grating words and pointed. Thunder bellowed, and lightning struck, and the gates exploded outward in shards of scorched timber and melting metal. And Jaime came rushing forward with his Arran.

I had no time to watch, for we hurried on around the city to the next portal. The streets were crowded now with
running soldiers and galloping cavalry, and terrified citizens, and we pushed through them with the ease that beggars have, for none want to touch or come close—especially not when those beggars are preceded by snapping, angry dogs.

I saw a squad of horsemen unseated as the hounds nipped at the horses’ legs and set them to prancing, and Haldur’s men ran in and drew those hidden blades and used them to deadly effect. I drew my own and joined the slaughter, and soon all the riders lay dead and bloody.

Then through noisy streets and filthy alleys to the West Gate, where one-handed men already fought with Talan’s soldiers, and again Shara raised her hands and spoke her spell so that wood burned and metal dripped, and Mattich came in with his Dur. I saw old soldiers from Andur’s army on the walls now, striking at the Danant occupiers as if they’d no care for their own lives, but would only see Chorym freed. And from the houses came ordinary citizens armed with kitchen knives and clubs, some even with cooking pots that they used to batter Talan’s men.

We raced on. All depended on speed, and Ellyn’s support—that Nestor be confused and not locate the source of the magicks that opened Chorym’s gates. I prayed that Ellyn survive; that we all survive.

“W
hat do we do?” Talan snatched a cup and drained it, motioning that the servant refill the goblet. “Egor’s captured and the Highlanders enter the city. Where’s your magic now, Nestor?”

“They move fast,” the Vachyn answered, “and they’re divided. But even so …” He paused, closing his eyes a moment. “It’s as I thought: one within and one without. The second is easier to deal with. So, her first.”

He ignored Talan’s whining as he concentrated. Then he raised his hands and wove patterns in the air and spoke soft words. And Talan stepped back, sinking another cup as he felt the power fill the room.

E
llyn worked desperately over the pots Shara had left with her, mouthing the spells the sorceress had taught her. She could feel the Vachyn power fill the air around her and above her. Even in her, in her blood and her bones. It was as if a storm gathered, covering her skin with horrid anticipation, like prickling fingers that tapped out a message of defeat and destruction. She felt it gather and strike—and as it did, she voiced the spell and sent out the protective weaving.

Nestor’s magic struck like a hammer’s blow from the sky.

And was deflected, and dissipated, as if a wind blew against a strong tent.

Even so, Ellyn was knocked to the ground. And the pots trembled, water spilling from one, earth from another; the candle’s flame flickered and threatened to die. She picked herself up and returned to her weaving, and when the lightning struck again and she saw the tent burning, she felt less afraid. She voiced the spell louder so that it covered her, and those around her, and in a while she felt the Vachyn’s magic falter and turn away. She smiled and went out from the burning tent and mounted her chestnut horse and summoned her bodyguard to follow her. It was an afterthought to order off a handful of wounded men to guard Egor Dival.

“T
oo strong.” Nestor shook his head like a man seeking to shuck off the effects of excessive wine. “She’s too strong.”

“What do you say?” Talan demanded. “Who’s too strong? Which one? What happens? Are we defeated?”

Nestor spat, and rubbed at his frowning eyes. “Not yet. I’ll find the other and slay her. Then …”

T
he Hel’s Town pirates were already clambering up the walls as we reached the South Gate. They used grappling irons, and seemed as careless of their lives as the Highlanders. Talan’s men sent arrows against them, and tumbled broken stones onto them, but they continued their assault as if their lives meant nothing.

Then Shara wove her magic again and the South Gate burst open in a great ball of flame that was matched by the light that struck from the sky.

And Shara screamed and fell down.

I picked her up. Her eyes hung wide, the pupils rolled back so that only white showed, and as I held her I felt scarcely any pulse. I was afraid she was dead—struck down by Nestor’s magic. I carried her away from the fighting around the gate as the Hel’s Town pirates flooded in, and set her down on dirty cobbles. I rubbed her cheeks and her hands, and felt her flesh cold under mine. I kissed her and willed her to live; I could no longer imagine life without her. But she remained supine, still as a corpse.

“O
ne’s struck,” Nestor said. “My erstwhile sister, I think. And the other—does she live—shall not be long after.”

Talan drank more wine, staring from the high window. He saw folk in the streets: his own soldiers and Highlanders, Chorym’s citizens, all fighting. He saw his men plucked from the battlements by armored beggars and howling clansmen. Smoke rose from the four gates and he could see, far off, the wreckage of Egor Dival’s chariots. He turned, extending his hand that the waiting servant refill his cup—but the servant was gone and he realized he was alone with Nestor.

He shouted, but no answer came. He went to the chamber’s door and shouted again, and again there was no answer. No waiting servants; indeed, only an empty corridor.

“They’ve fled.” His voice was hollow. “They’ve deserted me.”

“They’ll come back,” Nestor said. “Now Shara’s slain, we can defeat them. They’ll not last long now.”

“D
oes she live?” Haldur stared at Shara as the Hel’s Town pirates raced yelling past us. His beggar soldiers formed a wall between us and the confusion.

“She must,” I said, and took her in my arms. “Where can I bring her?”

Haldur glanced around and pointed to a dismal tavern. The door was locked, and when he pounded on the wood there was no response. He shouted at his men and they set to ripping shutters from their mountings, then smashed the glass behind so that one might clamber in and open the door. The man emerged with a bloodied sword, and as I carried Shara to a table, I saw a body on the floor. The beggar caught my look and shrugged. “The landlord argued our entry.”

I ignored the corpse. If the man was not with us, he was our enemy, and I had far greater concerns than his miserable death. I laid Shara down and called for water. As I soaked a cloth and set it to her forehead, I heard tumult outside. There was a great clattering of steel, and howling battle shouts, the screams of hurt and dying men, and no few women. I set a hand to Shara’s slender neck and felt a pulse. For an instant hope rose, but then I felt the pulse flicker, arrhythmic. I set my ear to her mouth, but I heard only faint breaths that came irregular. Her face was deathly pale, her eyes closed, and I felt all my hope turn to ashes. I swallowed the bile that rose in my throat and forced myself to think clearly.

“There are healers here still?” I asked. “Find them! And send men to bring Ellyn.”

Is she not also slain
, I thought. And then:
if she is, I shall slay Nestor. Vachyn or no, I’ll take his head.

Haldur bellowed orders and men went running out into the chaos. I dripped water between Shara’s bloodless lips and prayed to the gods I now hoped existed and listened to me.

“I
cannot find her.” Nestor frowned, pacing the chamber like some restless cat unwilling to let go a mouse. “There’s magic abroad still …”

“Then you must know where she is.” Talan stroked nervously at his splendid helmet. “Strike there.”

“I did!” Nestor snapped. “She was beyond the fog, but
now she’s gone. She left some magic there, that I believed her still in place. But now …”

“Now what?”

“She’s gone. Likely coming here.”

“Then you’ll be able to find her, no?” Talan picked up the helmet, wondering if he should latch it in place. He could see half his army slain and scattered, and hear the remainder fighting in the streets. It seemed, from the vantage point of the palace, as if all Chorym rose against him. He gasped as he saw a cavalryman swing a curved sword against a woman who held up a brass cookpot in defense. The blade smashed the pot away and cut into the woman’s shoulder. He could not hear her scream, but from the blood that gouted, she must be slain. But then three more women and an old man armed with a kitchen knife clustered around the rearing horse, all careless of the hooves, and dragged the rider from his saddle. Talan watched as pots and rolling pins and knives descended.

“Does she use magic,” Nestor said, and smiled.

“You find this amusing?”

“I find it pointless.” The Vachyn shrugged. “Shara’s slain. Does Ellyn employ her talent, I can find her and slay her. How can we lose?”

“How?”
Talan gasped. “By all the gods, all Chorym rises against me! The gates are open, and …”

An officer, his armor dented, blood on his face, came in. He offered a cursory salute. “The South Gate’s down, and Hel’s Town pirates enter. There are Highlanders through the others. They fill the streets.”

Talan cursed long and loud.

The officer said, “It shall be hard to hold, my king. This place is a maze, and with General Dival’s force lost, it might be better we withdraw.”

“To where?” Talan clutched his helmet to his armored chest, wishing there were servants left to pour him wine. “Back to Danant?”

“To the palace.” The officer wiped blood from his cut face. “This is a citadel, my lord. Do we group here, we can hold.”

“And I can sweep the streets,” Nestor said. “Call in your men and I’ll cleanse Chorym of this rabble.”

“And can you not,” Talan snarled, “I shall be trapped here. As Ryadne was.”

“I gave you this city,” the Vachyn returned. “I gave you Andur’s head, and Ryadne’s death. I’ve slain Shara. I gave you Chorym—and I can give it back to you.”

“Your word?” Talan asked.

“My word.” Nestor ducked his head. “Call in your men and I’ll send such magicks against these invaders as shall sweep them away like rats in a flood.”

“And the city?” Talan stared at the fighting in the streets.

“Much will be destroyed.” Nestor shrugged carelessly. “But when I’m done, there shall be none dare argue your rule, nor any willing left alive, and then you can rebuild.”

“Or go home to Danant,” Talan sighed. Then turned to the waiting officer: “Regroup on the citadel.” And to Nestor: “Do as you will to win me this war.”