Kitabı oku: «The Compass Rose», sayfa 3

CHAPTER THREE

Beltis had to pick her way through the rubble that had felled Kallista, rather than striding decisively, but she was moving. The young North naitan removed his gloves, handed them to his guard and followed, his blue tunic less noticeable in Iranda’s light than Beltis’s yellow.

Fire exploded in the plain below, turning half the lead Tibran rank into human torches. Rock tumbled down the steep slope of the glacis, mowing down the ranks behind. From the tower on the far side of the breach in the wall, more magic came, causing vines and brambles to grow instantaneously in the field, impeding the enemy’s rush. Satisfied the naitani were doing their duty, Torchay turned to his own.

His muscles quivered from holding his weight off his captain for so long. He pushed himself up, gravel and dust cascading from his back, and went to his knees beside her. That she had not yet regained consciousness worried him. He had no East magic, no healing in his touch, but he had the best nonmagical medical training available. A bodyguard needed to be able to tend his naitan if he failed in his first duty and allowed her an injury.

Torchay cleared the area around his captain, blocking out the shouts and screams of battle. The youngsters seemed to be holding their own, so far. He straightened her limbs, checking for injury, working his way carefully toward her torso and head. She didn’t wake under his probing, even when he pressed on bruises he knew had to hurt.

She’d been struck in the head at least once, but he wouldn’t have thought that blow enough to render her unconscious this long.

Someone screamed. Beltis. Torchay looked up to see Hamonn clutch his chest as if arrow struck, but no shaft protruded. He staggered, then fell from the wall into the shattered hole where the breach had been forced.

“They have hand cannon,” Kadrey shouted back at Torchay as he pulled both naitani down behind the broken walls. “Long, with knives on the end like pikes, but firing tiny missiles. As bad as archers.”

Beltis screamed again, rising to her knees to fling fire at the enemy. Looking grim, Adessay crawled up beside her. Worried, Torchay turned his attention back to his own naitan. He had to wake her if he could.

She looked ghost white in the eerie light. Kallista usually appeared more pale than she actually was because of the contrast with her hair, so dark a brown it was almost black. But this paleness seemed extreme. Gently, Torchay slipped his hands around her neck to feel along her spine.

He loosened her queue, knowing she wouldn’t like it, but the tight weave of hair kept him from feeling her skull, finding injury there. When he found the lump, she flinched and gasped. Torchay grinned. A lump usually meant the swelling was expanding outward, rather than in against the brain. And she responded to pain.

He found no other injuries, save for the cut on her forehead and the second lump forming beneath it. He cleaned it with water from his bottle and a cloth from his pack.

“They’re coming!” Kadrey shouted.

“Stop. Hurts.” The captain moved her head away from his ministrations.

“I’m finished.” The cut was as clean as he could make it here. Torchay took her hand in his. “Squeeze.”

“Still hurts. Why?” She opened her eyes to slits, squinting against the bright illumination.

“You got smacked on the head with a great huge rock. Blame it for your headache, not me.”

“No. Why squeeze?” Her hand lay limp as yesterday’s fish.

“So I know you can. You might wiggle your toes while you’re at it.” That enormous boulder had barely brushed her, but Torchay’s stomach made fear-knots over what that light blow could have done.

“Oh.” She promptly squeezed his hand tight enough to hurt and waggled both feet up and down. Then she tried to roll over and sit up.

Torchay pushed her back down, realizing far later than he should have that the scuffling and shouting he heard were right on top of them. He ducked beneath the knife-on-a-pole of the nearest Tibran and buried a blade in his heart. He pulled it out and threw it at the head appearing over the wall at the breach. He just had time to see the hilt quivering in the dead man’s eye socket before the next crisis was upon him.

He drew the long knife from its sheath down his back beneath his tunic and slashed across the neck of the first man rushing them, then lunged forward onto one knee and thrust it into the gut of the man behind him. That gave them a little space of time before the next enemy reached them.

Torchay stood, bringing his naitan up with him. Holding her close, inside his protection, he surveyed the situation. Beltis lay draped over the parapet, the blood pouring from her neck denying any hope she might yet live. Adessay and his guard sprawled in a small heap, both of them gutted. Probably by the first man Torchay had just killed.

More soldiers in padded gray jackets and loose red trousers rushed down the walkway toward them, and yet more climbed onto the wall beyond.

“We should fall back.” Torchay tried to draw the captain toward the town side of the wall.

“Where to?” She was already stripping off her gloves, thrusting them at him.

“Anywhere. Somewhere safer than this.”

“And where is that?”

He could feel the hair-raising tingle of magic being called. Before he could tuck her gloves into his belt, lightning flashed from her hands. The massive blue-white spark leaped from man to man to man until all of them lay twitching on the walk a few moments before they fell still, their hearts stopped.

More of them climbed over the parapet, up ladders from town where shrill wavering screams tracked the progress of the Tibran sack of Ukiny. Kallista let her lightning fly in huge, jagged horizontal sheets, half toward the men on the wall, half toward the breach where countless more hordes poured through. She stood with her arms outstretched in supplication to the Source of Magic.

Again and again and again, she called on the One for power, until she was blind and deaf with it, sensing the enemy as much as seeing them. Bodies lay piled on the wall five and six deep, and still they came. They climbed over their fellows in the breach and burst onto the city streets, held back now only by Kallista’s lightning and the occasional rooftop archer.

“You can’t call enough magic to kill them all.” Torchay crouched beside her, head swiveling as he attempted to watch in all directions. “There are too many of them. We must fall back.”

“I can’t!” Kallista could hear the screams of the innocent as they died, smell the smoke of homes being burnt. She couldn’t save herself while they suffered. She could see gray and red on the tower where she’d stationed the rest of her troop. They had to have fallen like Beltis and Adessay.

“Kallista!” Torchay grabbed her waist with both hands, breaking her concentration. “Your death won’t save them.”

Sweet Goddess, he was right. But she couldn’t just give up. She lifted her hands high, calling yet again on the One, the Mother and Father of All, Giver of Life, Source of Magic. “Do something!” she screamed. “They are your children! Save them. Use me—whatever you want! Whatever you need. I’ll do anything, if you’ll just save your people. What kind of Goddess are you?”

The wind rushed past from the sea as it had since time began. The sun crept above the eastern horizon, casting the dead into pale shadows behind the wall, painting their spilled blood brilliant scarlet and crimson and dark, dull, brown. For a moment, Kallista waited to be struck down for her defiance.

Then power filled her in a turbulent rush, enough power to fill deep oceans, to shift whole mountains and build a hundred cities. It permeated her, deep into each strand of hair, every shred of callused skin on her feet. She screamed, and power poured in through her open mouth. She couldn’t contain it all. She had to rid herself of it somehow. Kallista threw her hands wide, as if throwing lightning from her fingertips, and the magic exploded from her.

Not in bright sparks, but as a shock wave of darkness, a sort of black mist, roiling out in all directions from where she stood at the epicenter. It settled over the landscape, clinging like some dark dew to everything it touched. And Tibrans began to die.

Some of them screamed, clawing at their faces as if it burned. Others just dropped in their tracks. Others—she couldn’t see clearly. A few turned and ran when they saw the opaque fog approach, but it moved as fast as the lightning she threw. There was no escape.

Panicked, Kallista tried to call it back, but the magic refused to answer. Would it kill everything it touched? She looked down at Torchay where he knelt by her side, head bent, saw the dark glitter clinging to the burnished red of his hair. She tried to brush it off, and it melted away like the mist it resembled, leaving nothing behind. Not even dampness.

Torchay turned his face up to hers, his eyes as wide and frightened as she knew her own must be. “What did you just do?”

In the high mountain pass on the southern edge of the Mother Range, huddled over a feeble fire just at dawn, the trader lifted his head. He sensed something. A new thing, strange and powerful—and oh so seductive. He straightened, searching with all his senses. Was he finally to discover what he had been seeking for so long?

When it hit him, bowing him backward in a spine-cracking convulsion, he shouted for sheer joy. Incredible power rushed through him, recognizing him, welcoming him, promising him his every dream fulfilled. It left him as quickly as it had come, but this time it left him filled with hope, with eager purpose, rather than anxious desperation.

No, not this time. This was as like his previous experience as the sun was like the moon. It was promise kept. It pulled at him, compelled him onward, sped his steps. His heart’s desire awaited him, and the faster he traveled, the sooner he would have it.

He picked himself up from the dirt where he lay, his traveling companions hovering in a fearful circle around him. “Move, you sluggards!” he bellowed. “I want to be on my way before the sun reaches the treetops.”

He hurt. All over, but especially his head. And there was dirt in his mouth. And his mouth was too dry to spit. Stone tried anyway. He succeeded in getting rid of some of it. He wiped his hand on his pants and scraped more of the grit off his tongue with his fingers.

Where was he? What had happened? They’d made it through the breach, somehow alive and—Khralsh, his head hurt.

Ocean was gone, incinerated by an Adaran witch. He’d taken his partner, Moon, with him. River, Wolf, Snow—too many to name—had fallen to arrows or worse. But he and Fox had made it through. He was certain of that. They’d crossed into the city, cleared the houses nearest the wall, which were mostly cleared already save for a screeching crone who’d brained him with a broom and died on Fox’s bayonet. They’d reloaded, fired the houses and left them burning to advance to the next street.

Stone had killed the archer shooting at them from the roof and reloaded, then they’d checked the house. Empty. The dead archer was a woman. That had shocked him, but Fox reminded him she was dead now, paying the price of her blasphemy in the afterlife. They’d clattered back down the stairs and set the place alight. Then…

He scrubbed a hand across his face. The light hurt his eyes, even though they were still closed. It wasn’t supposed to be light, was it? Wait—yes, the sun had come up. He remembered that. It had just risen over the city walls when…When what?

Stone spit more dirt from his mouth, beginning to have enough spit to do it. He should get up. Find where they’d called muster. Report in. But lifting his head seemed more than he could accomplish. He tried opening an eye and managed that. It was hard to see, his vision veiled, blurred somehow.

This didn’t look like the city. Unless the city had crumbled around him. Was that what had happened? Stone opened his other eye. How could the sunlight hurt when everything seemed so dim? He lay over white stone rubble. Big rocks, little rocks, grit, gravel, bloody body parts…mighty Khralsh, he was in the breach.

Stone tried to scoot off the dead but there were too many of them. They carpeted the ground, layers deep, their limbs flopping bonelessly as he struggled to escape them. Heads lolled. Wounds gaped open. Stone’s hands slipped and he fell face first into some poor soul’s bloated entrails.

Retching his empty stomach even emptier, he slid farther down the slope only to fetch up against the brittle black corpse of one of the fire-witch’s victims. Stone recoiled in horror, scrambling, rolling, crawling on his belly until he reached a bare rock promontory jutting from the sea of bodies. There, he curled into a tight ball and shivered uncontrollably.

What was wrong with him? He was a warrior. Death was no stranger to him. He’d climbed across bodies to capture a city numberless times before. He’d been on burial detail, collecting bodies from the battlefield and lining them up in rows to record their names before consigning them to pyres of Khralsh’s flames. Granted, he’d never before seen men burst into spontaneous flame without a torch or spark to set the blaze, but fire was fire. It was natural. Not like…What? Why couldn’t he remember?

Had it been so awful that his mind wiped the memory blank? And where was Fox?

Stone uncurled from his tight knot, just a little. Fox had been with him, he knew. Fox was always with him, just as he was always with Fox. So where was he now?

“Fox!” He tried to shout, but his throat was raw, his voice a weak, raspy, croaking thing.

How far had he rolled from the breach? Stone looked through his veiled vision up the glacis. He was no more than halfway down, but could he make the climb back up? No witches were left to set him on fire or make the earth itself move beneath his feet. So he only had to face climbing back over the cold bodies of his onetime comrades.

Fox was up there. Had to be up there. Stone would do anything for his brodir. Spitting once more, calling on his god with it, he started back up, doing his best not to step on the bodies. Desperately, he tried to reconstruct events. Through the breach, kill the crone, fire the houses, next street.

They’d checked the dead archer. They’d fired that house. They left the house. There was a child. An Adaran child. Boy or girl, Stone couldn’t tell. Never could when they were that young, especially the way Adarans dressed them alike. The child was huddled in a doorway, terrified, staring at them with witchy pale eyes, waiting for death.

But they didn’t make war on children. “Run!” Fox shouted.

“Hide.” Stone opened the door behind the child, shooed it inside. Fox had marked the door when it was shut again, designating the building “Not for burning.” It was far enough from the wall that they had discretion as to which building to burn, and it was—hopefully—far enough from those already burning that the wood inside the stone walls wouldn’t catch. And then…Stone paused in his climb, pulled his hand back from the corpse it touched to wipe it on his filthy jacket.

And then, the air around them had exploded, the sun had gone dark and the world had come to an end.

Except that it obviously hadn’t. The same sun—at least Stone thought it was the same one—still shone overhead. The same wind blew past him on its way inland from the ocean. The same bodies still lay in the same breach of the same wall around the same Adaran city.

Not…exactly the same bodies. He’d noticed it on his climb, but only now began to piece together what he saw. There were more bodies. Hundreds had fallen in the charge on the breach, but some of these dead men wore badges from divisions Stone knew were not scheduled to advance until the walls had been taken.

Many of the bodies bore no marks at all. Others looked as if their heads had exploded, or their hearts had burst, or their internal organs simply decided to crawl out through their skin. Perhaps the world had ended after all.

End of the world or not, he had to find Fox. Something drove him upward, a desperate need to find what he was searching for. And what would that be but his partner? Stone tried calling his name again, quietly this time, for he sensed movement on the walls above and inside the city. Did Tibre hold it, or had the Adarans driven off the assault with their witch magic?

He reached the place where he had regained his senses, as near as he could tell, and began turning bodies over. Most Tibrans had hair some shade of yellow, but Fox’s was brighter than most, with a hint of red in the sunlight. Stone concentrated on those bodies with the brightest hair.

“Fox!” He called in a hoarse whisper, looking for some faint motion, some response. Fox had sworn to do his best to live. He couldn’t be dead.

His desperation growing, Stone searched through the gray-and-red-clad fallen there in the breach. His breath rasped louder in his ears with every step he took. His vision dimmed then cleared at whim. He called to his partner, sometimes forgetting to keep his voice quiet. Body by lifeless body, he worked his way through the breadth of the breach, from one broken wall to the other.

On the south side, where ladders had been propped for warriors to reach the Adaran witches and wipe them from existence, Stone saw yet another head covered in bright curls. Heart pounding in his chest, he rushed toward it, tripping over the corpses in his path.

Fox lay on his side, curled around the base of a ladder. His face looked peaceful. No, happy. A faint smile curved his lips. Stone’s vision blurred again and he wiped the wetness from his cheeks. He was afraid to touch him. Afraid to discover his partner had found Khralsh’s welcome.

Swallowing hard, Stone set his hand on Fox’s shoulder and tugged. Fox rolled to his back, his arm falling limp to the rubble beside him. Blood pooled on the ground from a gaping wound in his thigh. A man could bleed out in minutes from such a wound. It wasn’t bleeding now.

Stone swiped his sleeve across his face again and, fingers shaking, touched his partner, searching for a heartbeat. He could feel nothing through the short, padded jacket. Stone ripped it open, sending bone buttons flying, and laid his hand flat over Fox’s heart. Even the shirt could interfere, so Stone opened that as well. Nothing.

“Damn you.” Stone pounded on the silent chest, weeping openly now. “You swore to live. You swore to try! You broke your oath! You broke—”

The grief took him over and he sank back on his heels, crying out his pain to whatever god would hear him. He curled over until his forehead touched the rock where he knelt, and let the tears come, let them mingle with Fox’s blood on the ground. Tears and blood, the most precious thing a man could offer the warrior god.

He was still there when the Adaran patrol came. They tossed the bodies of the Tibran dead—including Fox—down the slope where what was left of the Tibran Fifth Army could collect them and burn them. They put Stone in shackles and marched him away. He didn’t care. He had nothing left to care about.

Aisse lay bleeding in the mud and dung of the cattle pens, waiting for the farmer to return and finish his punishment. Likely, it would finish her as well. Dawn had broken while she lay here and bled, and with the sun came a whisper of hope.

She could see her bag, the one she’d packed so carefully, lying tossed aside just beyond the rough rails of the pen. The tin cup was bent nearly flat, the biscuit crushed to powder, but perhaps the cup could be reshaped and the dirt brushed from the dried beef.

She dug her fingers into the mud and pulled herself forward. It hurt. Ulili, it hurt. But she moved. Focused wholly on the bag, she crept toward it bit by painful bit.

“Where do you think you’re going, witch?” The farmer’s harsh voice made her cry out.

But she couldn’t stop, couldn’t give up. Not until she had no breath left with which to whisper a prayer, no mind left with which to hope.

The farmer snatched her up by the hair and dragged her over the fence, the rough boards scraping her battered body mercilessly. “If you got life enough to move, you got life enough to feel this.” He raised his fist, but before he let it fly, screams echoed through the camp. Screams coming from masculine throats.

He dropped Aisse in the dirt, spinning to face the noise, his face going pale. “What—”

She didn’t care what caused the screams. He’d let her go. She stretched her arm out and forced her pain-racked fingers to close around the leather of her bag.

“Achz preserve us,” the farmer whispered, and took off at a run toward the battlefront. Though what he thought he could do, Aisse didn’t know. He was Farmer caste, not Warrior. But he’d left her blessedly alone.

Aisse dragged the bag close and clutched it to her chest as she crawled the few feet to her cup. It took her several minutes to fumble it into the bag, then she worked her way to the discarded beef. She didn’t try to clean it. She didn’t know whether she still had teeth strong enough to chew it. But she pushed as much of it as she could gather into the bag. Once that was done, she began to crawl the long, endless distance toward the cover of the trees outside camp.

The sun climbed higher in the sky while she crawled. At first, she flinched at every noise, tried to hide from the sound of running footsteps. But she couldn’t move fast enough to hide, and the footsteps always ran past, toward the city. Voices shouted one to the other about witches and evil and death magic. She didn’t care. As long as no one tried to stop her, they could blather about anything they liked. She was getting away.

Finally, she felt the cool shade fall across her head. Then her shoulders, her back, her legs. She kept going. She needed to find a place to hide. With so many dead—she’d understood that much, that thousands had died—they surely wouldn’t try to find her. They had more important things to do. But she didn’t want anyone stumbling across her accidentally and finishing the job the farmer had started.

Aisse crept off the path already formed by people walking to the nearby branch of the river. The trees were short compared to the high forests of her home, and most of the fallen wood had been collected and burned in fires over the last week. But down near the rivulet, she found a tree whose roots had been undermined by seasonal floods. The brown tangle had left a gap big enough to hide her.

She filled her bent cup with water and drank. Then she crawled into the tangle of roots. Her passage left marks in the sandy grit of the bank, but if she tried to erase them, she’d only leave more. Aisse curled into a ball and prayed that no one would find her. And if they did, she prayed for a quick death. She wouldn’t go back.

“Are you hurt?” Kallista whispered, searching Torchay for signs of injury.

He shook his head. After a moment, he stood. They huddled together on the city wall, staring out at what Kallista had wrought.

Nothing moved on the walls of Ukiny. After a time, a crow fluttered up and landed with caution. No arm waved it away. It cawed and pecked at the body where it stood.

Nothing moved on the plain west of the city, as far as the beginning of the white tents in the Tibran camp. The misty wave seemed to have lost power just there, for Kallista thought she could see wounded attempting to crawl back to safety.

On the waters of Ukiny Bay, Tibran ships sat at crazy angles, their masts snapped and splintered. They’d all been anchored closer to the city than the camp had been. Some ships had already sunk, the rest sinking or so damaged they’d never sail before next spring.

Within the city, Kallista could hear shouting, some of it joyous, some frightened. The mist hadn’t harmed Torchay. Could it have been so selective as to kill only Tibrans, leaving Adarans untouched?

“My gloves, Torchay. I need my gloves.”

“Yes, Captain.” He pulled them from his belt and helped her put them on, both of them fumbling at the task with shaking hands.

“Don’t be afraid of me, Torchay.” She fought to keep the quaver from her voice. “Please don’t be afraid of me now.”

“I am afraid for you. That’s a different sort of thing. Blessed One, Kallista, what happened?”

“I don’t know. I don’t—You heard what I said. And then there was power. So much—” She shivered and Torchay wrapped his arms around her, sharing his warmth as he had before. Her shivers weren’t due to cold this time, but still his presence stopped them.

“It sounds almost as if…” His voice came hesitant, fearful. “Could you have been…marked?”

Terrified, Kallista stared at him. “That’s just legend. Children’s stories. It isn’t real.”

“Isn’t it?” Torchay looked over her head at the devastation on the plains below.

Kallista shivered again. Or perhaps it was more of a shudder. “Isn’t it supposed to leave an actual mark? Something you can see? Or feel?”

Torchay’s hand that had been absently stroking the nape of her neck came down to claim her hand. He carried it back up to where he’d been touching her. “What do you feel?”

There, beneath her untidy queue, she felt a faint raised ridge on her skin. Her fingertips followed it down to a sort of knot, where another ridge intersected the first. Cold gripped her heart.

“Can you see it?” She held her hair up, out of the way, while Torchay bent to look.

“Yes,” he said. Nothing more.

“Well? What does it look like?”

“A scar. A red, raised scar.” He paused and his fingers touched. He traced along her spine, then perpendicular to it. “North. South. East. West.” He touched the point where the lines crossed, where Kallista had felt the knot. “And a rose in the center. It’s a perfect Compass Rose.”

She dropped her hair, pressed it down over the mark, over Torchay’s hand. “Maybe it was there already.”

“No. It wasn’t.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Kallista, I’ve braided your hair almost every day for nine years. It wasn’t there.”