Exile (40 page)

Let the water take me. Please, Bruche…

Lesle, smiling, laughing, leaning to kiss him. Elena, hands curled around his shoulders as he took her.

Do you remember them, Draken? Do you remember how they loved you? They cannot be wrong.

Lesle, hanging from her wrists, gutted like an animal.

Elena, crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

Let it take me, Bruche. Let me go.

No! You will not lie there and die. I won’t let you.

The bane roared flames back at him and met a wall of ice. Bruche demanded him again, wordless cold dragging Draken to the fight. They stood not side by side, no longer at odds in the same body, but as one being. Draken let Bruche pull him as seawater carries sand. Wordless, Bruche flooded Draken’s body with ghostly cold. The bane pierced the ice and grasped Bruche, who grunted in pain. They wrestled and writhed. Ice and fire twisted through Draken’s body like Sohalia ribbons entwined through a lady’s hair. And then the rising tide closed over Draken’s head. His soul shook itself loose of his heart.

***

Bruche?

As if in answer, lightning speared the skies. Even with the water over his face diluting his gaze, Draken couldn’t look straight at it. He blinked, realized he
could
blink.
Bruche—

His lungs constricted painfully, starved for air. His body thrust itself upward as he coughed and hacked a chestful of water. River water cascaded from his head and back, splashed from his throat. His sodden cloak threatened to drag him back down. He grappled for the clasp with one hand and the heavy fabric fell from his shoulders, which were still weighed down by the mail and awkward, misfitted armor.

Bruche. Answer me!

His robes floating in the knee-deep waves, Truls stood a few steps away, chin lifted, lips moving in silent invocation. One band of lightning joined another and still another. They snaked between the red moons, chasing their brightness. Beyond him, the roar of the sky-fires drowned out the human battle. Draken couldn’t make out individual shapes, just the crowd, sweeping against itself like an outgoing tide.

He and Truls were alone in this murky sea of knee-high water sizzling with nearby flames. A bolt of fire from the sky dove toward Brîn, erasing the scream of terrified humanity within the walls. The flickering light showed a sword hanging from the Mance King’s waist. Seaborn. Fires burned high behind the walls of Brîn. Smoke fouled the air.

Brîn. His city.

He’d never even been inside the walls.

Truls smiled his imperious smile. A horrible, cold smile had been the last thing Lesle had ever seen.

Draken did not think, did not hesitate. He reeled forward onto his knees and scrambled toward the Mance King, landing on Truls’ legs with enough force to topple him back. The Mance King roared in rage and a bolt of white fire sizzled on the surface of the water. Draken ignored it as he grappled with Truls, struggling to get his fingers around his throat, to push him underwater. The shallow water stung his eyes, blinding him, and Truls thrust him several paces away. Draken splashed back and his head went under again.

He came up gasping, but Truls was there, pushing him down, holding him under. His Voice rumbled through the water, but Draken couldn’t hear what he was saying. He clutched at the hands around his throat for a single, long heartbeat, waiting for Bruche to take over. The spirit was silent.

Gone.

Years of soldier training flooded Draken’s muscles like the water filling his chest. One hand slipped to the sword on Truls’ belt. His fingers found the familiar leather-wrapped hilt and he yanked. Two frantic tugs and the sword was free. Truls had to let go of him to stop him from getting at it, but he was too late. Draken’s face surfaced just as the sword slid from the scabbard. He sputtered as the blade called out to the sky-bound flames, which burned the leather wrap to ash, seared his palm. Despite the shock of pain, he clung to it.

The impact of the flames made Truls reel back. Draken was nearly consumed by gasping and coughing, but he didn’t let go of the burning sword. He splashed forward, falling on one knee, fighting to keep the sword above water, desperation propelling him toward the Mance King. His haphazard swing sizzled against the water and caught Truls in the thigh. The Mance King roared again, lifting his hands toward Draken.

White flame sizzled the water from Draken’s face. The sword tore Truls’ fire from the air again and gathered it into itself, flashing so brilliantly Draken had to close his eyes. He thrust himself still closer, into the heart of the brightness, into the core of Truls’ hatred. His throat charred by the heat, he could barely summon a whisper.

“Your life for Elena’s.”

He lurched forward, driving his sword blindly. It found flesh and barely paused at bone. Truls’ hands clutched Draken’s arms so tightly they felt like his fingers were teeth, like an erring locked onto its prey. Draken dug the sword deeper, impaling the Mance King to the muddy ground. The Mance King thrashed violently as the water closed over his face.

“Your life for Elena’s!” Draken cried again, one hoarse, guttural discharge of anguish and loss, digging the sword still deeper in the Mance King and the wet ground, until it stopped at the pommel.

Hands grasped him from behind and pulled him away.

“You’ve finished it,” Osias whispered.

Draken crumpled back against him. Osias held him, crooning quietly. Truls’ silvery hair wavered in the swirling water like a collapsed war banner. Black blood clouded his white-robed form. It drew away as the waters receded, cascading over the riverside cliff.

“You cannot rest for long. Your work is not finished.”

Draken tested his limbs and struggled to his feet. He yanked the sword from the dead Mance King, but it slipped from his grasp onto the muddy ground next to him. He was chilled with a normal, miserable, damp coldness. The absence of Bruche made him lightheaded. Every motion seemed to take more deliberate effort.

“I thought you were dead.” His voice was thick, full of grief.

“We Mance do not die easily, as you’ve no doubt become aware,” Osias said. “Have hope. The banes have weakened with the passing of their master. I and my brothers will make sure they do not harm Akrasia again.”

“But they’re still fighting,” Draken whispered. The Akrasians and the Brînians hated each other. They didn’t need the banes. They only needed an excuse. Truls had known the people would complete their own destruction.

“Go stop it. Find Elena and stop it.”

“I’ll never find her in that.”

Stillness rolled across them like a wave. Noises Draken hadn’t even noticed quieted: boots and hooves against the ground and the remnants of the battle, the backdrop of the tides, the slosh of mud underfoot. The smell of smoke dissipated. Mists filled the edges of the world and concealed the muddy ground.

Draken turned slowly, staring into the Abeyance. Five Mance and Setia watched Draken and Osias, caution written across their beautiful faces. Beyond them, the war party of Moonlings waited, spears glistening in the mists.

Draken looked back at his city. Brîn was a backdrop of tragedy, flames and smoke concealing the walls and battlefield like an oily fog. Elena was still in the mess of the gate somewhere. Even if the magic had worked, maybe she’d been killed again, and this time by an ordinary sword.

“You stopped Truls. You can stop his war,” Osias said. He rose, lifting Draken to his feet as if he were a child. The water had noticeably ebbed.

“You were with him. Truls,” Draken said to the five Mance.

The Mance made their gesture of peace and respect, touching the fingertips of both hands to their foreheads. Even through the flood and Truls’ fiery destruction, they were all clean, shining, stunning, even Setia.

“We follow our King,” one answered, and looked at Osias.

“Setia?” Draken breathed.

Setia stepped closer. “I cannot hold us in the Abeyance for long, even with the Moonlings’ help. Go. Find Elena.”

Anger flared through him. Elena was likely dead. “You didn’t stop him,” Draken said. “None of you stopped him!”

“It’s not our place to fight the enemies of Akrasia,” Osias said, his stern voice like thunder. “It is not our homeland. It’s yours. Take up your sword and go.”

Draken reached down for the hilt. Exhaustion overcame him and he sank to his knees next to the dead Mance King. Even in death, his pale features glowed. “I can’t face it, all that death...they’re all dead, aren’t they? I can’t do this alone.”

Osias reached for Draken’s hand and led him toward the cliff. “Rise, Prince of Brîn, and look at the Erros.”

Draken stumbled, his sword dangling from his hand. Below, the frozen river teemed with sculptures of all manner of rafts and boats.

“Va Khlar,” Draken whispered.

“His new, valuable ally is threatened, so he came,” Osias said. “And look there, on the far edge of the city.”

Thousands of green-cloaked, mounted troops in ordered formation filled the space between the river and the city, locked into strict, silent rows by the Abeyance.

“Tyrolean leads the Night Lord Legions you so wisely posted nearby. Three thousand more servii are due in two days from Khein. Va Khlar brings one thousand. Your army is here.”

Draken drew himself up, forcing his aching back to straighten. He wiped his sword through a puddle to clean it and then lifted it. It flared in his hand, though it did not burn him. “I’ll go,” he said.

He turned, stumbling again because he’d forgotten the smooth, cloud-like texture of the Abeyance. He soon broke into a run.

Torn bodies lay in the pools of bloodied seawater on the battlefield. The edges and colors were dulled in the Abeyance, but Draken still had to force himself to look directly at them. If Elena were in there somewhere, still dead, then he didn’t know what he would do.

Should I run?

No answer.

“You never ran from a fight, did you, Bruche?” Draken muttered hoarsely.

After overturning several more bodies, he stared helplessly around at the battlefield and the thousands of dead men. How long could Setia hold them in the Abeyance? If the battle resumed before he found Elena, and she was alive, someone would surely kill her.

A glimmer of white among the gray and black splinters of the broken gate caught his eye. He stumbled toward it, hope banished by exhaustion, but he dropped to his knees. Halmar lay across the bloody Queen, covering most of her body, but Draken’s hands went through the Brînian’s body as if he weren’t there. “The edges don’t always overlap,” he muttered to himself. He stood and lifted his sword, willing it to flare. It shot a beam upward into the silent grayed skies. The Mance by the riverside cliff moved in response.

The clamor of swords came first, underlying confused, frightened voices. The river next: rushing down the canyon, carrying the shouts of Va Khlar’s people as they fought to keep their rafts and boats afloat. And then the thunder of a thousand horses, marching for Brîn to stop the fighting. Mostly it was the scents telling Draken the Abeyance had retreated: smoke, blood, seawater, freshly turned mud.

He knelt and pulled Halmar off the Queen, his muscles straining against the bulky Brînian.

“Khel Szi,” Halmar mumbled.

Draken didn’t answer, consumed with Elena. Her clothes were still torn and bloody from his sword, and he scrabbled at her chest desperately with his fingers, searching for a wound. It was gone. Why didn’t she move? He bowed over her and lifted her hand to his forehead.

“Khel Szi, the Akrasians are coming,” Halmar said.

Elena’s eyelids fluttered and her head rolled to one side.

The sounds of horses galloping their way and shouts intruded on his hope, but he didn’t look up from Elena’s face. Her dark eyes opened and met his. He released her hand to offer aid in sitting up, but she stared at the sword in his left hand. It still glowed faintly.

He rose and backed away from her.

Tyrolean drew up his horse and threw himself to the ground. He strode forward, but paused as Elena lifted her head. Her gaze was on Draken.

“The Mance King is dead?” she asked him.

Draken bowed his head. “He is, Your Majesty.”

She cringed when he used her title, and looked away. “I must halt my army, then,” she said. “The fighting is over.”

“I’ll go with you,” Draken said, taking a step closer. “You’ll need my help.”

She moved toward Tyrolean, shaking her head, still staring at his sword. “No. Do not.”

A servii offered her his horse and she mounted. Tyrolean held, bowing his head to Draken. “My lord?”

“Go, Captain,” Draken said. “Go with her.”

With apparent difficulty, Tyrolean tore his gaze from Draken and followed Queen Elena toward the incoming troops, leaving Draken standing alone in the rubble of the gate, staring after them.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

H
e wasn’t alone for long. Va Khlar strode toward him, leading a group of his own men and women, armed to the teeth. More straggled behind, slowed by the long climb from the boat caves. They stared all around at the bloody battlefield, and at the Mance as they approached, but most had weapons drawn and wore the tough expressions of those accustomed to bloodshed.

“What would you have of me, Night Lord?” Va Khlar said. He eyed the small contingent riding away.

“I don’t think the title applies anymore,” Draken said.

“What shall I call you?” Va Khlar asked.

“Apparently, I am the Prince of Brîn.”

Va Khlar bowed his head. “Lord Prince it is, then. How I may I serve you?”

Draken blew air through his teeth and turned his gaze toward the burning city. “Will you come with me into Brîn and help put her right?”

Va Khlar nodded and a mirthless smile creased his face. “I would see peace in Brîn, Your Highness, if only to better trade.” He slapped Draken on the back and started barking orders in a mix of languages.

The city gates were still barred, but the Brînian soldiers opened them readily enough when Draken lifted his sword. Having the notorious Va Khlar, the massive Halmar, and six Mance at his back helped, too.