Warriors of the Veil Page 14

Grayson was going to die.

  Kal could not let that happen. He drew his sword, and his mind went back in time. A yeetta warrior was standing over Livy’s bed. There was still time to save her!

  A single stroke was all it took to end him.

  A man screamed, pulling Kal back to the present. He had fallen to his knees and was holding Shanek in his arms, rocking him like a babe. The green bubble was gone. Grayson was standing, staring. Kal’s sword lay on the floor between them, the tang slick with blood.

  “Father?”

  Kal looked down on Shanek’s blistered face. “You’re okay,” he said, his voice a raspy whisper. “I’ve got you.”

  “What happened?” Shanek asked.

  “You were struck down, Shan. That happens in battles sometimes, even to men who think they’re invincible.”

  The boy’s gaze shifted from Kal’s right eye to his left. “I wasn’t invincible?”

  “No, Shan. You weren’t.”

  A tear leaked down Shanek’s cheek and his eyes filled with more. “It hurts.”

  “I’m sorry, Shanek. I’ve got you.”

  “You won’t leave me again?”

  Guilt flooded Kal at the idea that he might have avoided this had he stayed with Shanek like he’d promised. “I’m staying right here. I won’t let you go.”

  A familiar tune rose above Shanek’s labored breathing. It took Kal a moment to realize it was coming from inside his head. Onika, humming her song. The realization broke him for a moment, but he pulled himself together for Shanek and hummed along, rocking his boy to sleep.

  Trevn

  Trevn watched his herald ride a white horse across the river, up the bank of the other side, and across the snowy field toward Rogedoth’s army. He hoped this would work.

  Miss Onika and her Veil warriors came to the battlefield to storm and banish shadir. She told him that Shanek DanSâr was dead, killed by Sir Kalenek, of all people. Trevn barely recognized Grayson when he appeared on the ground beside Trevn’s horse. The sight of his blistered skin under gaping burn holes in his tunic almost made Trevn dismount and knight him that very moment. Instead he sent him to the fort for fresh clothes and whatever armor Hawley could scrounge up.

  The herald stopped halfway between the river and Rogedoth’s front line and waited. Waited a very long time. Some of the soldiers began grumbling. Was the king mad? Why would he offer peace? They wanted the Pretender’s head on a pike! But Trevn knew Rogedoth wouldn’t accept peace. He hoped the man would be insulted enough to send his vanguard forward.

  So much time passed, Trevn almost called back the herald. Finally a horse rode out from Rogedoth’s infantry. Trevn held his breath, curious what the outcome would be.

  Rogedoth’s man took the scroll, then he drew his sword and stabbed Trevn’s herald.

  The entire Armanian army seemed to gasp. Trevn squeezed his reins, horrified that anyone would kill a messenger. He felt the force of his men’s indignation. Their voices rose up in growls and shouts of outrage.

  Rogedoth’s man pushed the herald off the horse, held up Trevn’s scroll where all could see, then ripped it in two. He tossed the pieces, grabbed up the reins of the herald’s horse, and rode back through the Puru infantry, taking the animal with him.

  Trevn had his answer, though unfortunately at the cost of a man’s life. “That was first blood,” he said to Cadoc. “The battle has begun.”

  Cadoc nodded. “I’m with you, sir.”

  “I can throw fire at them, sir,” Grayson said. He was against standing on the ground beside Trevn’s horse, this time dressed for battle.

  “Do nothing until you hear from me, Master Grayson. Cadoc, I must speak with the men.” Trevn steered his horse into the open and yelled, “Soldiers of Armania!”

  The men fell silent and stared at their king. Those in the back pressed closer, and the sight of so many eyes fixed on Trevn made his throat tight. He walked his horse between the cavalry and infantry lines. “Our enemy draws first blood. It is time to fight.”

  The soldiers around him raised their weapons in the air and hollered their agreement. The energy bolstered Trevn’s courage, and he raised his hand and waited for the voices to fade.

  “We fight today because Arman commands it,” he shouted. “For too long Barthel Rogedoth, the Pretender, the shamed prince of Sarikar, used magic to control my father. Now he seeks to destroy us entirely and make the nation of Armania his own. I will not let that happen. My crown does not belong to him, nor do my people. You are mine, by Arman’s will, and I vow to keep you so. Our enemy believes he can use magic to win this battle, but Arman has given me and those of my blood a magic of our own. We can fight the mantics and defeat them.”

  Again the men cheered. Trevn had reached the end of the line, so he rode between the archers on the right flank and the right infantry unit. He met Gunrik Koll’s gaze and nodded, thankful to have mended his relationship with the nobleman. “As you just witnessed,” he yelled, “I have made an offer of peace. But the Pretender will not have it. Our enemy seeks to kill us today. He wants our blood. He would give rule of our great realm over to shadir. To minions of Gâzar.” He paused to let this sink in. “Soldiers of Armania, this will not be!”

  A ripple of cheers passed through the ranks. Trevn wove his horse through the men, hoping to draw near enough to all at some point so that everyone could hear at least some of what he said. He nodded to the giants, to Ulagan, and hoped he could translate.

  “Barthel Rogedoth, the Pretender, has forgotten his maker. He has forsaken the will of Arman and so he is blind to all that is good and right in the world. Soldiers of Armania, we come together to stop this man. I am your king, but today I fight as your equal. Your brother.”

  The men bellowed and cheered and thrust their weapons in the air. The sudden noise sent Trevn’s horse skipping to the side, and he calmed it. He had reached the left flank now and steered his horse back toward the front.

  “Arman is not only watching over us. He is with us. But we must do our part. The duty to fight for our realm has fallen at our feet. Arman has chosen us and equipped us. He is in our weapons, our will, and in our hearts. He will give us strength, help, and he will give us victory!”

  Like a thunderstorm the men erupted, cheering and stamping their feet in a clamor that surely had been heard by Rogedoth, waiting with his mantics and shadir.

  “General Ensley,” Trevn voiced. “Let the archers fire one round.”

  The general gave the order, and Trevn waited, watching eagerly for the first arrows to fly. A man’s voice called out, muted and distant from the left flank, and suddenly the whispers of hundreds of feathers sang, and a volley of arrows streaked across the sky.

  A ripple of something like wind shimmered before the Puru infantry line, and the Armanian arrows clattered against an invisible barrier like twigs hitting a brick wall.

  Terror rendered Trevn speechless, as it must have the entire Armanian army. Silence hung over them like a cloud.

  “General,” Trevn voiced. “‘We cannot win without our archers.’ Didn’t you say that?”

  “Not exactly, Your Highness,” the general replied. “I said they would give us a great advantage.”

  Yet this shield gave Rogedoth the advantage. What if it protected each of his soldiers? How could Trevn’s army stand against such magic?

  Trevn’s men were murmuring. Lost was the momentum his speech had gained. “Miss Onika?” he voiced. “I need a—”

  “Shields!” someone yelled, and the warning was repeated across the field.

  A horde of arrows was streaking across the sky toward them. All around Trevn, men lifted their shields, though only a quarter of the Armanians had them.

  “Your Highness!” Rzasa shoved a shield at Trevn.

  He accepted it, but before he could lift it overhead, green light flashed across the sky, creating a semi-transparent wall, like colored glass. The arrows twanged as they bounced off this phenomenon, which was slowly fading
away.

  A great silence followed, then murmurs of confusion that grew to a raucous cheer.

  “What was that?” Sir Cadoc asked.

  Trevn had one guess. “Despite my insistence that she not, I believe Chieftess Charlon is going to help us.”

  Onika

  The king wanted answers of Arman, but the God did not reply to mortal demands. So far he had been silent on this matter. Onika tried again.

  Holy One, hear my prayer. The water has come up to our necks and we are sinking. There is no foothold here but your truth. Our enemy seeks to destroy us, and I ask now for your favor. Rescue us from this flood. Deliver us from our foes. And please speak to me about this mantic Charlon Sonber. Do not hide your face from your servant, but give a clear answer. Shall we trust her or scorn her? And what if she will not listen? Speak, Lord. Tell me your will.

  She went on to make proclamations of Arman’s authority, his dominion over the earth and beyond, over all living beings—spiritual and earthly. She praised him, stated lists of historic wonders, and asked to be filled with his power. She invoked Arman’s authority over this battle, and again asked for a word as to the mantic woman who had put herself on their side.

  When Arman didn’t answer, Onika could only guess. “His silence most often means he has answered already,” she told the king.

  “Meaning that Armania should have nothing to do with shadir,” the king said. “And therefore nothing to do with Chieftess Charlon. I told her this already.”

  “I can easily see that the woman listens to no one,” Onika said.

  “Will Arman hold me accountable for her actions?”

  Onika didn’t know. “Forgive me, Your Highness. I have no answer to give. But I can tell you that Grayson is capable of creating the same type of shield. He did so on a very small scale when fighting Shanek DanSâr. He is unpracticed but a quick learner.”

  “I will put him to work at once,” the king said. “Perhaps we will have no need for Chieftess Charlon after all.”

  That would match Arman’s promise, but Onika needed Grayson as well. “If you keep Grayson near you to make shields, we cannot use him to try to break through the barrier surrounding Rogedoth and his mantics,” Onika said.

  “One side will have to cross the river soon,” the king said. “Until then, banish any shadir you see. And if Chieftess Charlon refuses to depart, perhaps I can at least advise her what would be most helpful. That is General Ensley and Marshal Winstone’s suggestion. Would that cross the line?”

  “I cannot say for certain, Your Highness, though it does seem a risky compromise.”

  “Combat is a risky endeavor, Miss Onika. I pray Arman’s mercy is greater than any misstep I might make.”

  Charlon

  Charlon marveled at the size of King Barthel’s barrier. Had one mantic conjured it? Or were all working together?

  “Chieftess Charlon.”

  King Trevn’s voice inside her head. Like Shanek’s sometimes did. He must be using the mind-speak magic.

  “I thought we had an understanding.”

  “My son is dead because of King Barthel, Your Highness,” she said. “I will fight him. To avenge my son. Whether or not you want my help.”

  The king did not answer. Angry to have been disobeyed, perhaps. People likely fell at his feet. Well, Charlon would not. She had been prepared to give him his wish. Had been riding to Magosia when Nwari had brought word. Of Shanek’s death. At Kalenek’s hand. So angry, she had been. So grief-stricken. She had nearly joined King Barthel. Until she asked about Shanek’s body. And Nwari told her. That Kalenek was holding it. Holding it and weeping.

  Charlon’s anger had washed away in an instant. How quickly she had forgotten her vow. To do good. To trust others. She should have known. Known that Kalenek would never have harmed Shanek. Unless the boy had given him no choice.

  She did not blame Kalenek. This had been King Barthel’s doing. He had riled and puffed up Shanek. With his lies. None of this would have happened. If he had left Shanek be.

  So Charlon had turned back.

  “Is your shield one way, Chieftess?” King Trevn’s voice in her head again.

  “Anything goes out, nothing comes in.”

  “I don’t suppose you know how to destroy their shield?”

  “Are you asking me now for help?”

  “You say you will fight despite my wishes. So I might as well know what you’re capable of. I need ten to fifteen minutes for my archers to complete their attack. Can you provide that?”

  Charlon did not know. “Have your archers ready their arrows, Your Highness,” she said. “I and my shadir will do our best.”

  The king said nothing. Had he changed his mind? Then, “The archers will be ready.”

  Charlon had been given a chance. “Nwari!” she called.

  Yes, Chieftess? came the voice in her ear.

  “Go and watch King Barthel and his mantics. I want to know what they are doing.” Then she commanded her birds. “Gowzal ba shel ayder. Daah!”

  Her swarm took flight, their black wings stark against the pale sky. She had nearly thirty now.

  “Sabab bara mahgayn!” she yelled.

  Feathers and fur changed to green light. Light that rose over the river. Formed a wall.

  “Rachab!” she yelled, and the wall expanded.

  “Ruhm!” And the wall stretched higher.

  When it felt big enough, she yelled “tsar!” and the wall stopped growing. She thrust her hands forward and commanded it to move. “Ahthak!”

  The shield drifted toward King Barthel’s army. Until it struck his shield. Collided in a blinding flash of light.

  “Ahthak!” Charlon yelled, thrusting her hands out again. The gowzals squawked from inside the shield. They were straining. Their bodies weak. Some would die. Still Charlon’s shield pushed King Barthel’s back.

  The Armanian soldiers whooped and hollered. Charlon fought the urge to smile. Stayed intent. Focused. On feeding power to her magic.

  A voice somewhere in the Armanian army yelled, “Draw!”

  Charlon yelled “Ahthak!” again and pushed her shield toward King Barthel’s army. Little by little both shields drifted back. Passed over the heads of the first soldiers. Exposing them. A ball of green flame shot out from the rear. Struck Charlon’s shield and disintegrated. She felt her gowzals waver.

  The Armanians cheered. The distant voice yelled, “Fire!”

  A swarm of arrows sighed as they were launched into the sky. Charlon’s shield had almost reached the line of horses. Two more green fireballs died against her shield. Then the patter. Of arrows hitting bodies, shields, and bronze armor. Strangled cries. Men falling.

  King Barthel’s shield collapsed. So Charlon released hers. Her flock scattered. Converged again as they flew back toward her. She saw two birds fall.

  This enabled King Barthel’s archers to launch arrows at the Armanian army. Green fireballs shot into the air too. Knocked several of Charlon’s gowzals from the sky. Arrows continued to fly both ways. No longer as a unit. As quickly as each archer could draw and release. Soldiers began to fall. Far more on King Barthel’s side, it seemed.

  Suddenly the arrows were no more. Charlon took stock of the battle around her. Men groaned. Horses stamped their feet. It was otherwise silent. What now? If they were to fight, one side must cross the river. It would be bitterly cold. Unpleasant for whichever side went through.

  Three balls of green fire launched from the back line. Aimed for the Armanian army.

  “Mahgayn!” Charlon yelled to one of her birds. Repeated the command to two more. The three gowzals shot into the sky. But before they could reach their targets, tiny shields of green light appeared before each fireball. Extinguishing them in bursts of sparks. Sparks that drifted down and died in the river.

  Who had done that? Did the Armanians have a mantic after all?

  “Rone,” Charlon said. “Carry a message to King Trevn. If he wishes to cross the river, I will fr
eeze the water. So that his men can remain dry. Have him voice me his answer. And I want to know who his mantic is.”

  Rone steered his horse away.

  Another fireball launched, this time toward Charlon. She shielded against it. Then shielded three more attacks. It seemed King Barthel wanted to destroy her. She had just conjured an additional shield when King Trevn’s voice sounded inside her head.

  “Master Grayson learned from your example, Chieftess. It seems his magic is similar to yours.”

  Charlon supposed that made sense. Shanek’s powers had been like her own.

  “But Grayson cannot freeze the river,” the king said. “If you would be so kind, we will be ready to move the moment we see it happen.”

  “As you say, Your Highness,” Charlon said, lifting her hands to command her flock.

  Qoatch

  The giants approached in two groups. The first half had come on foot, scattered and scampering across the snow-covered garden. The second half were on horseback in the distance, walking the animals slowly toward the castle and watching those they’d sent ahead.

  Hesitant to use lightning on this side of the river, Jazlyn transformed her two remaining gowzals into spears that launched through the air and each stabbed a giant through the chest. The birds did not return. Either they were fatigued or they were wounded like Izar’s bird. Jazlyn stood helplessly on the portico as the giants drew nearer. Qoatch would have to engage in hand-to-hand combat, this time without the benefit of invisibility.

  Five of the giants closed in on Jazlyn, wielding battle-axes with blades as big as Qoatch’s head. He took position in front of his Great Lady, ready to do his part to protect her. The Sarikarian guards stationed along the back wall of the stronghold drew their swords and lined up on either side of Qoatch.

  “Go for the legs!” he yelled to the Sarikarians, dodging out of the path of one axe, and lunging to cut across the back of the giant’s knees.

  Ziyph’s gowzal finally returned, and Jazlyn sent it out in a burst of flame that caused the giants to dive to the ground. Qoatch and the Sarikarian guards seized the moment and fell upon the giants, hacking their smaller blades over legs and arms. The cuts were not deadly, but by the time the giants were on their feet again, Cherem’s gowzal had recovered its form. This time Jazlyn conjured the bird into a double-sided blade with no handle on either end. With old language commands, she sent it spinning out in an arc above the heads of Qoatch and the Sarikarians. The whirling blade cut off three heads, and nicked or maimed a half dozen others. This left only four giants standing, and they began to creep backward. The giants on horseback had reached the castle and stopped a fair distance behind the remaining four.