Eolyn (33 page)

Akmael turned back toward the royal army.

“None of them are to survive this day,” he reminded Drostan. “Make certain the men understand. I will suffer no prisoners, except for the maga. She is to be brought to me alive and whole, untouched by any blade.”

C
hapter Forty-One

As the King’s guard advanced
, nostalgia caught in Sir Drostan’s throat, a longing to see an army of magas arrayed before him.

He remembered the exhilaration of facing those worthy opponents: the brilliance of their armor, the sharp snap of their burgundy flags, the high pitched fury of their battle cries. They had met Kedehen’s army with well-forged swords and power-laden staves. Their flames had scorched the battlefield, leaving smoldering earth and burnt flesh. Their death charges had thundered through the ranks of the King’s men, killing all who did not have time or skill to deflect their deadly curses.

But the royal army withstood their attack. Drostan had slain every one of his own adversaries—men with whom he had studied, women to whom he had made love, friends and colleagues turned enemies of the King and therefore of Moisehén.

He did not mourn them until long after the war, when he found time and quiet and secret places in which to grieve. Once his regrets were spent, he did not think of them again. Not until today, when their memory emerged like a glittering mirage over the humble valley of Aerunden. 

Ehekahtu,
he murmured,
Sepuenem al melan dumae, Erehai abnahm al shue.

The distance between him and his opponents was still too great for
Ahmad-melan
to take effect, but Drostan never entered a battle without invoking its protection. Once the fighting started, it was much more difficult to cast such spells.

At the King’s command, Drostan reined in his chestnut horse, slowing to a trot with the rest of the line. By now, he could see the faces of the rebels, not more than a hundred paces away, like hawks caught on the ground.  Fear rose in smoky wisps off the ill-formed right flank.

Already the magic that ran beneath the field of battle was palpable. The chants of Tzeremond’s mages faded, fell back, and surged forward again. Maga Eolyn defended her own, raising barriers against Tzeremond’s curses as she reinforced the courage of her foot soldiers.  Not one sword had clashed, and yet the battle had already begun, wrapping around them in an invisible cloud, running beneath them in tightly held ribbons of magic. 

A long shout was heard from the King’s lead archer. Shafts of ash sped in a high arc toward the rebel’s right flank. As they paused at their zenith, Drostan sensed the indecision of the maga, and he held his breath.

She is new to war, and she is only one. 

She could not weave spells of valor and deflect arrows at the same time.

In the instant she made her choice, the tide of magic beneath the right flank receded. A burst of wind issued from the southern ridge.  She had responded just as they had hoped. Arrows scattered and missed their targets, but the second volley came on the heels of the first, straight and swift, giving her no opportunity to intervene. Bodkin points pierced arms, shoulders, legs, and faces. Cries of pain and panic filled the air. 

“Forward!” Akmael cried, and the horns sounded the charge.

Drostan sprang ahead with his liege’s men. They formed an impenetrable wall of horses and metal. Nostrils flared. The odor of fear and sweat filled Drostan’s senses. The power of Tzeremond’s mages carried them forward.

They charged into the ranks of the Mountain Warriors. Men on either side of the breach buckled back. Uncertainty rippled through the front lines. Drostan lifted his sword high and brought it down on the first rebel within reach. He felt the satisfying crunch of metal against bone. The blade released a spray of blood, and the man crumpled to the ground.

All around, foot soldiers cried out under swords and hooves. Drostan allowed himself a grim smile as he hacked another mercenary into the Underworld. There would be no need for magic here. They had breached Ernan’s lines with ease, and soon the second charge would join them. 

This slaughter will be over within the hour
.

A vicious blow knocked the wind from Drostan’s lungs and sent his mount screaming to the ground. The knight landed hard, one leg pinned under his flailing horse. A mind-numbing roar thundered through his head. Heart racing, he shoved back his visor, struggling to regain focus.

Drostan watched, incredulous, as a wild cat ripped through the neck of his mount. Almost as large as the horse, the savage creature had snow white fur and gray stripes. It lifted its bloody jowls, roared, and set ice blue eyes upon Drostan.

Before the knight could retrieve his sword, the cat sprang. Giant claws scraped at his armor. Fangs slashed at his face. Drostan wedged a mailed forearm into the beast’s throat, in a desperate struggle to hold it off. His free hand searched for a weapon, any weapon.

His grip closed around the haft of a discarded axe, which he brought full force against the side of the creature’s head. The impact reverberated through his arm, but the cat did little more than pause in annoyance. The creature’s weight was crushing him. Drool dripped hot onto his face.

Adjusting his grip, Drostan drew the weapon back and struck again, driving the metal blade into the animal’s skull. The creature’s sharp howl of pain sent shivers through the knight. He wrenched the axe away and struck again. The cat stumbled back. Drostan struggled out from under his horse and lunged forward, hitting the beast over and over. Blood sprayed everywhere, until at last the giant feline collapsed into a heap of blackened, sodden fur.

Exhausted, Drostan sank to his knees, oblivious for the moment to the battle that raged around him. As he reached forward to touch the animal, it transformed in front of his eyes, leaving in its place a man, his flesh ripped open and covered with blood.

Stunned, Drostan turned the body over. The height, the features of the face, the color of the hair and eyes were all unmistakable. His opponent had been a Mountain Warrior. But how, in the name of the Gods, had he learned to shape shift?

The knight pushed himself to his feet. Pain burned raw through his thigh. The tiger’s claws had punctured his arm. He tested his weight on the bruised leg and grunted in satisfaction. The wounds were deep, but he had suffered worse.

Recovering a sword from the ground near his mutilated horse, Drostan straightened and scanned the melee around him, eyes narrowed and muscles tensed. A legion of snow tigers assaulted the royal army. Fangs and claws flashed in dust raised by the battle. A handful of mage warriors, old men like Drostan, had shape shifted into bears to counter this new threat. They rose high on sturdy hind legs. Their deep bellows rumbled across the battlefield. Giant cats rushed at them in a vicious blur. Men and horses caught between the shape shifters were being torn apart.

Torturous moments passed while Drostan searched the chaos, apprehension mounting as he realized he had no answer for the one question that mattered most.

Where was the King?

Tahmir had started up the narrow valley
with a handful of Syrnte warriors before dawn. They moved like shadows through the misty forest, invoking powers of stealth embodied by great predators that ruled the plains of their homeland. As the sun warmed the high branches, they climbed the rear of the hill. The few guards they found before reaching the summit were easily silenced.

Signaling his men to fan out near the edge of the clearing, the Syrnte Prince concealed himself behind a small cluster of saplings. Master Tzeremond had cast his circle just where Eolyn anticipated. He stood in dark undulating robes, the smooth melody of his spells contrasting with the chaotic clamor in the valley.

Rishona’s impatience echoed inside Tahmir’s head. She waited with a small company of horsemen, hidden in the woods behind Ernan’s lines. Tahmir could feel the quick pulse of her heart, the sweat of her palms inside leather gloves. She was anxious to charge forward, to defend the many she had come to love, to win the crown she so desired.

Patience, dear sister. Our destiny is at hand.

Tahmir drew the arrow meant for Tzeremond from its resting place. He had fashioned the shaft from a smooth branch of young ash and balanced it with tail feathers from the hawk of their mother, Tamara. Rishona had imbued it with complex spells designed to cut through the formidable defenses of a mage’s sacred circle. The tip was bathed in venom. They had brought the arrow from their homeland, and during their time with Mage Corey, they had guarded its existence in absolute secrecy. On the eve of the battle, they had removed the arrow from its finely carved case and ignited its sleeping magic.

Setting the arrow on his bow, he drew the string taut and waited for the currents of time to slow. Eddies settled, and the window to Tzeremond’s death came into focus. Tahmir sent the arrow hissing toward the wizard. It sank into his back like a knife through soft butter. Passing directly through the old mage, the arrow continued in a smooth arc toward the ground and skidded out of sight.  

Tahmir caught his breath.

The window of chance twisted and then vanished.

Time resumed its flow. Tzeremond remained standing as if nothing had happened, his robes motionless in the wind. He ceased his song, then shimmered and disappeared.

Three of the High Mages vanished with him.

The voices of the remaining five faltered. One rushed forward to the place where their master had just stood, his expression incredulous. Another turned with deadly precision toward Tahmir’s hiding place. Extended his arm, the mage shouted. 

Ehekahtu, faeom

Re dumae!

Tahmir flung himself to the ground just as the flame hit. Saplings burst into flames overhead. He rolled to his feet and raced downhill, ducking out of the path of a second shaft that singed his shoulders and hair. All around, his men perished with agonized cries. The stench of burning flesh filled the air.

Just ahead, Tahmir saw himself glance over his shoulder as a low rumble rose from the summit. Tahmir skidded to a stop, merging with his own image as past met future. He turned to look back, and light ripped open the forest. Heat scalded his face and enveloped his body. Death burned through his lungs. Fire consumed flesh, melting skin and muscle into a bubbling, blackened mass.

For one excruciatingly painful moment, Tahmir saw every path he had lived and would not live. He remembered music, passion, and dance. He heard his sister’s laughter and saw the sunlit plains of their home. He reached out to the many he had loved, and mourned the one he had forever failed.

Eolyn.

Darkness claimed him, and all awareness slipped from his grasp.

Akmael’s destrier reared,
throwing him to the ground as a tiger tackled the horse and ripped open its neck. The King struggled to his feet under a fountain of blood.

Ehekahtu, faeom re dumae!

Magic surged through Akmael’s feet and burst from the palm of his hand. The snow tiger fell convulsing as its head melted into blackened fur and ash-covered fangs.

Another tiger sprang through the smoke. With no chance to invoke a second flame, Akmael swung his sword. She ducked out of reach and caught Akmael’s shin with her paw, knocking him off balance. Akmael regained his footing and spun to face her again.

The snow tiger crouched a few feet away, curved fangs exposed in a vicious snarl, the thrill of the hunt in her ice blue gaze. Roaring, she threw herself forward and crushed Akmael against the earth. His sword slipped from his hand. His helmet was torn away, and his vision blurred. Then her teeth came into focus, gleaming inside an ebony mouth. 

An explosion of fur swept her away. Gasping, Akmael pushed himself up and reached for his sword. A massive bear had tackled the female and now grappled with her. Claws tore at fur, jaws snapped at limbs. Akmael recognized the reddish hue of the bear’s aura.

Drostan!

His relief palpable, the King drew himself to his feet.

An enemy horseman bore down upon him, cutting through enraged beasts and desperate foot soldiers. Akmael looked toward Drostan, but the bear now struggled against two of the tigers.  He steadied his stance and waited, sword in hand, until the destrier was almost upon him.  Then he drove his blade into the satin brown snout, parting skin, teeth, and tongue in a spurt of blood. 

The animal screamed and reared back, throwing its rider. A hoof knocked Akmael in the chest. The sword was torn from his grasp and landed several feet away. Akmael stumbled back and reached for his blade as his attacker hit the earth.  

Ehekahtu, naeom denae!

But his breath was short and his stance weak, and the weapon did not return to him.

His opponent rose to his feet. Akmael recognized him by his long sword, so pale it might have been forged from ivory. Ernan’s blade sang with a voice unlike any Akmael had heard, a rich amalgamation of earth, fire, and air.

The rebel stepped forward and removed his helmet, letting his red hair fall wild over his shoulders. His pale green eyes narrowed.  “Look upon me, son of Vortingen, and remember the one who sent you to the Underworld on this day.”

Akmael had seen those eyes before, on the face of a woman, a maga and warrior. In an instant, Ernan’s image faded and, the red-haired witch stood in front of him, implacable in her rage, the corpse of his mother reflected in her merciless gaze. She pointed her staff at him and cried,
This boy must die!