A Magic of Nightfall (50 page)
Read A Magic of Nightfall Online
Authors: S. L. Farrell
“Indeed,” Enéas answered. “Only Cénzi knows. That is only the truth.”
The offizier stamped his papers, informing Enéas that Commandant cu’Ulcai’s schedule was full this day but that he might call for Enéas to give his report in person, and that he was released from other duties for the next week. He was given a room and a key, and Enéas put his pack there, placing it carefully away from the fire in the hearth and the window where the sun’s heat might find it.
Then, he walked down the Avi a’Parete to the square where the Archigos’ Temple sat, pigeons dotting the flagstones and flying overhead in military-precise squadrons to settle again where someone may have dropped food. Enéas walked slowly, savoring the sights and odors of the city, the taste of the air rich in his mouth. The city wrapped its presence around him like a matarh, embracing him wholly in its perfumed miasma, and he nearly sobbed with the sheer relief of it. People were streaming into the square from the Avi, and he realized that it was nearly Second Call just as the wind-horns began to sound from the great golden domes. Enéas joined the people streaming into the temple. Some of them recognized the uniform he wore, with the red sash of the Hellins prominent across it, and they nodded to him with a smile and gestured to him to enter the line. “Thank you for your service, Offizier,” they told him. “We appreciate all that you’re doing over there.” Enéas smiled back to them as he passed the great bronze doors with the tangled bodies of the Moitidi streaming forth from the riven chest of Cénzi, and entered the cool, incense-scented dimness of the temple.
He sat close to the quire, just below the High Lectern, leaning his head back to gaze upward to the distant, ribbed roof. Through the colored glass high above him, brilliant light stabbed the twilight. He could hear the chanting of the acolytes in their alcove as the wind-horns quieted and the procession of the téni entered the quire from the rear entrance. He stood with the rest of the congregation, smiling with pleasure as he realized that it was the Archigos himself who would be giving the Admonition and Blessing today: Cénzi had indeed rewarded him. When Enéas had left Nessantico, so long ago, it had been Archigos Ana who had given the departing battalion their Blessing, here in this very space.
Now it would be her successor who would bless him again, when he had a new, greater task to take on.
Enéas listened patiently to the Archigos’ Admonition. The Admonition, strangely to Enéas, was filled with a call for tolerance, as Archigos Kenne plucked verse after verse from the Toustour that spoke of respect for diverse views; he cautioned those in the temple not to rush to judgment. “Sometimes, the truth is hidden even from those who are closest. Let Cénzi judge others, not us.” That, at least, was advice Enéas could follow, with Cénzi’s voice guiding him.
After the ceremony, Enéas went up to the rail with the other supplicants. Archigos Kenne moved slowly down the line, stopping to talk with each of them. To Enéas’ eyes, the elderly téni looked weary and tired. His voice was a rasping husk, telling Enéas that he (or one of the other téni) had enhanced it with the Ilmodo so that it sounded strong and confident as he gave his Admonition. Enéas bowed his head and gave the sign of Cénzi as the Archigos, with the scent of incense clinging to his robes, shuffled before him. “Ah, an offizier of the Garde Civile,” the Archigos said. “And with the sash of the Westlands, no less. We owe you our gratitude for your service, O’Offizier. How long did you serve there?”
“For longer than I wish to remember, Archigos. I’ve just returned to Nessantico this day.”
The Archigos’ wrinkled, desiccated hand brushed Enéas’ bowed head, fingers pressing on oiled hair. “Then let the Blessing of Cénzi welcome you back to the city. Is there a particular blessing I can offer you, O’Offizer?”
Enéas lifted his head. The Archigos’ eyes were gray-white with nascent cataracts; his head had a persistent slight tremor. But his smile seemed genuine, and Enéas found himself smiling back in return. “I’m a simple warrior,” Enéas told him. “An offizier serves the orders he’s given. I’ve taken many lives, Archigos, more than I can count, and will undoubtedly take more before my service is ended.”
“And you want Cénzi’s forgiveness for that?” the Archigos said. His smile broadened. “You were only performing your duty, and—”
“No,” Enéas interrupted, shaking his head. “I don’t regret what I’ve done, Archigos.”
The smile collapsed, uncertain. “Then what . . . ?”
“I would like to meet the Kraljiki,” Enéas told him. “He should know what is happening in the Hellins. What is
truly
happening.”
truly
happening.”
“I’m sure that the Kraljiki hears from the commandant—” the Archigos began, but Cénzi was talking to Enéas, and he spoke the words he heard in his head.
“Commandant ca’Sibelli is dead by now,” he said loudly. “Ask the Kraljiki what news has come from the Hellins. He will not have heard anything at all, Archigos. There is no news from the Hellins because there is no one left there to send it. Not anymore. Ask the Kraljiki, and when he says that the fast-ships haven’t come, tell him that I can give him the report that he needs to hear. I am the
only
one who can. Here—” Enéas placed a calling card with his name and current address on the rail. “Please ask him when you see him next,” Enéas said. “That is the boon and blessing I request of you, Archigos. Only that. And Cénzi requests it of you as well. Listen? Can’t you hear His voice? Listen, Archigos. He is calling to you through me.”
only
one who can. Here—” Enéas placed a calling card with his name and current address on the rail. “Please ask him when you see him next,” Enéas said. “That is the boon and blessing I request of you, Archigos. Only that. And Cénzi requests it of you as well. Listen? Can’t you hear His voice? Listen, Archigos. He is calling to you through me.”
“My son . . .” the Archigos began, but Enéas stopped him.
“I’m not a soldier whose mind was addled by what he’s seen, Archigos. I was saved by Cénzi to bring this message to the Kraljiki. I give you my hand on that,” he told the Archigos, and reached out. Enéas heard Cénzi’s deep bass voice boom in his head as he touched the elderly man’s wrist:
“Listen to him. I command it.”
And the Archigos’ eyes widened as if he’d heard the voice, too. He pulled his hand away, and the voice died.
“Listen to him. I command it.”
And the Archigos’ eyes widened as if he’d heard the voice, too. He pulled his hand away, and the voice died.
“Ask the Kraljiki for me,” Enéas told him. “That’s all I wish. Ask him.” Enéas smiled at the Archigos and rose to his feet. The other supplicants and the téni in attendance were all staring at him. Archigos Kenne gaped, looking down at his own hand as if it were something foreign.
Enéas gave them all the sign of Cénzi and walked from the temple, his boots loud in the silence.
Niente
T
HE FORCES OF TECUHTLI ZOLIN and the Tehuantin army were arrayed a careful bow’s shot away from the thick defensive walls of Munereo.
HE FORCES OF TECUHTLI ZOLIN and the Tehuantin army were arrayed a careful bow’s shot away from the thick defensive walls of Munereo.
Three days of battle had sent the Garde Civile retreating inside the walls. Tecuhtli Zolin had been both aggressive and unmerciful in his attack. Commandant ca’Sibelli had sent a parley group to the Tehuantin encampment after the first day of battle, when Zolin had routed the Garde Civile from rich, high fields south of the city. Niente had been there when the parley group had arrived flying their white flag; he had watched Zolin order his personal guards to kill them and send their severed heads back to Commandant ca’Sibelli as answer.
They had attacked the main force of the Garde Civile at dawn the next morning; by that evening, they were within sight of the Munereo walls and the harbor, with the Holdings fleet at anchor there.
Now it was dawn again, and Tecuhtli Zolin had called Niente to him. Zolin reclined on a nest of colorful pillows; the High Warriors Citlali and Mazatl were with him also. Behind him, an artisan crouched over Zolin’s freshly-shaved head; next to the artisan was a small table crowded with dragon-claw needles and pots of dye. Zolin’s scalp had been painted with the spread-winged eagle that was the insignia of the Tecuhtli; now the artisan prepared to mark the skin permanently. He took a needle, dipped it into red dye, and pressed it into Zolin’s scalp: the warrior grimaced slightly. “The nahuallis’ preparations are finished?” Zolin asked Niente as the artisan quickly dipped the needle again and pressed it into Zolin’s head, over and over. Blood beaded and trickled down; the artisan wiped it away with a cloth.
“Yes, Tecuhtli,” Niente told him. “Our spell-staffs have been renewed—for those healthy enough to do so.” He lifted his own staff, displaying the carved eagles that circled below the polished, thick knob. “We lost two hands of nahualli in the battle; another hand and one are too wounded to be of use today. All the rest are ready.” Niente nodded to the two High Warriors. “I’ve placed them as Citlali and Mazatl have asked.”
“And the black sand?”
“It’s been prepared,” Niente told him. “I supervised that myself.”
“The scrying bowl? What did it say to you?”
Niente had spent much of the night peering into the waters, which had given him only murky and clouded visions, as well as exhaustion and a face and hands that seemed to have acquired a webbing of fine wrinkles overnight. Niente had found himself confused by the quick glimpses of possible futures. But he knew what Zolin wanted to hear, and he plucked one of those fleeting visions from his mind. “I saw you inside the city, Tecuhtli, and the Holdings Commander at your feet.”
Zolin grinned broadly. “Then it’s time,” Zolin said. He rose, nearly knocking over the artisan, who scurried backward as Zolin plucked up his sword. He patted his bleeding head, smiling. “This can be finished later. The battle can’t wait.”
They went outside the tent, guards straightening to attention as they emerged. From the small hill on which the Tecuhtli’s tent stood, they could see the army spread out below them, the haze of cook fires drifting in the still morning. The walls of Munereo rose high farther down the slope, and sun dazzled on the water of the bay beyond and to their right. Zolin gestured, and a trio of battle-horns sounded, the call taken up by other horns throughout the encampment, and Niente could see the entire encampment stir, like a mound of red ants stirred with a stick. The battle lines began to coalesce; the High Warriors on their horses exhorting the troops. On the walls of Munereo, the rising sun reflected from metal helms and the tips of arrows as the Holdings troops waited for the attack.
Their own horses were brought to them, and they mounted. Citlali and Mazatl saluted Zolin and kicked their stallions into a gallop as they rode away. “You’re with me, Nahual,” Zolin said. “Now!” He, too, kicked his steed, and Niente followed the Tecuhtli’s headlong gallop down the hill to where the troops waited on the slope, nearly level with the top of Munereo’s walls, the troops moving quickly aside to let them pass, their shouts of support and adoration following.
Before his deep enchantment of the Easterner, Niente could have ridden all day with anyone. Now, the pounding of the horse’s hooves on the ground struck Niente’s body like hammer blows. It was all he could do to cling to the back of the animal with trembling knees. Zolin rode to the center of the front-line Tehuantin forces, where the eagle flag had been planted in the middle of the winding road leading down to the western gate of Munereo. There, the hand of siege dragons waited. Zolin, from his horse, patted the massive carved and painted head of one of the dragons. “The gods have promised us victory today!” he called out to those around him. He pointed downhill to the waiting city. Their warrior-marked faces were turned up to him, and they cheered. Niente had to admit that Zolin had charisma that Tecuhtli Necalli had lacked: the eagerness on the face of the warriors said that they would follow him even into the depths of one of the smoking mountains. “Tonight, we will feast where the Easterners dined, and we will take their wealth and the survivors back to our own cities, and this land will be returned to our cousins who once held it!”
They cheered again, louder than before. Zolin roared with laughter and patted the siege dragon again. “It’s time!” he shouted. “This day, you will find victory or you will find peace with the gods!”
He gestured, and the battle-horns blared the call-to-advance. The lines shivered and began to surge forward, and Tecuhtli Zolin—unlike Necalli, Niente again had to admit—rode at the very front, his head bare so that anyone could see the eagle on his skull. The advance started slowly, the soldiers moving forward at a walking pace. As they continued down the slope, the walls of Munereo seemed to climb, growing ever taller as they approached until they were in their long shadow. The siege dragons, mounted on their carts, squeaked and groaned as they started down the roadway, protesting as the men pushed them down the slope toward the walls and the great, barred gates. Zolin paused, and Niente with him: there was movement on the walls, and suddenly a storm of arrows dimmed the sun, arcing high in the air followed momentarily by the
thwack
of a thousand bowstrings. “Shields!” Zolin yelled, and the warriors around them lifted their wooden shields, placing them together into a temporary roof, several of them lifting theirs high so as to shield both Zolin and Niente on their horses. The arrows rained furiously down, feathering the painted, leather-strapped planks, some of them slipping between to catch an unlucky warrior, but most thudding harmlessly into wood. “Down!” Zolin called, and the shield wall fell, the soldiers hacking at the shafts with their swords. Broken arrows littered the ground.
thwack
of a thousand bowstrings. “Shields!” Zolin yelled, and the warriors around them lifted their wooden shields, placing them together into a temporary roof, several of them lifting theirs high so as to shield both Zolin and Niente on their horses. The arrows rained furiously down, feathering the painted, leather-strapped planks, some of them slipping between to catch an unlucky warrior, but most thudding harmlessly into wood. “Down!” Zolin called, and the shield wall fell, the soldiers hacking at the shafts with their swords. Broken arrows littered the ground.
Now the advance quickened. Niente held his spell-staff high—he knew what must come next. “Nahualli!” he called. “Be ready!” He could already hear the distant chanting, and he felt the shifting energy of the X’in Ka as the Holdings war-téni released their own enchantments. Fireballs sputtered over the walls of Munereo, shrieking toward them in lines marked by smoke. Niente shook his spell-staff at the nearest fireball and spoke the release word: the fireball erupted while still above and before them, the fire hissing as it died with glowing sparks falling around them. Another fireball crashed untouched into the Tehuantin forces to Niente’s right, and even at a distance the heat and concussion of the explosion were frightening. Where the fireballs landed, hardened warriors screamed as they died. The fireballs cut gouges in the advancing line but they filled quickly with warriors from the rear ranks. Zolin urged the line forward at a trot, the siege dragons seeming to scream as their wooden wheels lurched and bounced over the broken ground.
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