Springwar (70 page)

The geens were looking at him, too: all eager eyes, hungry teeth, and grasping finger-claws. And he could feel their thoughts even more eagerly, and knew they were feeling his as well—and relishing his pain even as they withdrew from it. There were only two inside; the rest were gathered over by the light, as though daring each other to venture into the snow.

More geens.

That would be good.

The landing became a ledge that ran toward that opening. He followed it, holding his breath as the stone dipped lower—almost low enough for a geen to leap up and grab hold. Which gave him an uncanny thrill.

Come on
, he thought at them, brandishing the sword.
I am armed the same as you. I have things that can cut even you in twain
.

And then he lost himself again as he thought about all this
fabulous armor and how wonderful it was to wear it, wondering where it had come from and for whom it had been made.

Abruptly, he was at the entrance.

A cleft in the wall moved him from dark to light, still above the geens’ level. Ahead and to the left was the stockade tower through which the beasts had initially been admitted. The only point of egress from the valley. And the only safe way down to see his friends.

He took it, lost himself again, and only returned to what he might once have considered awareness when he was on the ground, facing the massive portcullis beyond which
they
lay.

They knew he was there, too. He could feel them buzzing and gibbering in his head. Looking at things that made him what he was—who he was. And learning.

From nowhere—for surely such a thing could not be
his
thought—came an incessant driving desire.

free us free us free us free us free us free us …

Like drums in his head, which made the pain there even worse.

Without thinking about it, he found the quickest solution. Forgetting the complex apparatus that drove the portcullis, with all the safeguards that went with it, he raised the sword, which he seemed unable to release, and slammed it against the oak.

Light promptly reached out and grabbed him, carried him backward, and hurled him to the earth.

Which didn’t hurt, because he was unconscious by the time he hit.

When he returned to himself, which was a little
more
himself than heretofore, it was to observe a sea of leathery legs flashing by his face.

… us free us free us free us free us free us free us free …
came the litany, but louder by far was the rasp of deadly claws.

Rrath had sense enough to roll beneath a stone trough set against a wall.

Beyond hope, none found him there.

But then the last one paused, lowered its head, and sniffed right up into his sweating, steel-framed face.

And moved on—after a casual swipe of foreclaw found the collar of his hauberk and ripped down, as if in irritation.

Laying Rrath’s chest open to the bone.

The pain was epic, and he truly expected to die. Instead, he flailed feebly with the sword. More lightning answered. A growl and a half scream, half yelp, and the thing danced away.

Leaving Rrath alone with his pain.

It was the worst thing he’d ever felt, as he lay there in his own blood, while power that could not be released nevertheless fought for release within him.

Even as another, very subtly, began an equally incessant call.

Darkness found him, but not the darkness he’d flirted with before; this was a deeper kind, like standing on the edge of an abyss, in which, if one threw oneself, there would be no pain, no pleasure, no worries. Nothing at all but falling.

But he didn’t want to do that. Part of him still wanted to be Rrath. And that part had reawakened. Somehow, too, that part sorted the fractured chaos of Rrath’s memories into something that made marginal sense. Eron was at war. Ixti had invaded. The only way life would ever be as it was before all these terrible things had happened was if Eron won.

If …

There was nothing he could do, however, but lie here and hurt and bleed.

You are a weather-witch
, that voice reminded him again.

And the ground upon which he lay whispered back agreement.

Rrath agreed as well. By the power he could feel in the earth itself, this was the perfect place for a witching.

The pain in his head likewise knew it. But it also knew that an even more powerful place from which to drink of the land lay nearby.

Power welled up in him.

G
ynn’s horse slipped as the ground grew steeper, revealing a stretch of ice that had not yet melted, though water was everywhere.

Even his kingdom was melting, he thought grimly, as he let the aptly named Snowmelt find his balance. Even these walls, which had been built “just in case” the last time Ixti invaded. Even his plan of defense, which had depended too much on three untried youths, an uncertain King, and an unproven weapon.

Well, he still had steel. The Sword of Air, in fact, for Myx had that moment returned with that blade. Would it be enough, however? Would its own odd magic prove to be boon or bane?

At least there was something to do besides stand around and give orders that were better given by others—like Tryffon. Trouble was, the people needed someone to follow, and while Tryffon of War was by far their best tactician, Gynn—or the title that rode with him—was far more charismatic to the rank and file.

He also needed activity at the best of times, and certainly needed it now.

And since Snowmelt had his pace again, and the ground was flattening, he was able to lead the Guard toward the
breach that had suddenly appeared in the walls, likely wasting five years’ production of quick-fire.

Sacred quick-fire, the Priests said.

They’d give him grief for it, too—if he survived. If anyone ever let them out of the Hall of Clans.

Barrax would have fun there—if he got that far. Or Priest-Clan would have fun with him.

And then the terrain flattened before him, and all at once he was closer. Reality narrowed to the pounding of hooves, the rustling jingle of mail and armor, and the flash of crimson tabards on the two young Guardsmen to either side.

The wind shifted, and he caught the first shift of smoke, and saw the first dead Eronese soldier lying flat on his black with a stone as big as he was across him, while another, pinned down by an arm, thrashed and groaned and shouted at his side.

And then more stones—and fire—and yelling and cries. A surge of soldiers came tearing through a rent in the walls three spans wide, and for the first time, in truth, Gynn syn Argen-el faced the armies of Ixti.

He had his horse, armored and padded better than he, and that horse had been well trained in War-Hold, by Tryffon himself, whose mother was out of Beast, and so knew more about such things than anyone alive. Thus, the horse did most of the work—kicking, rearing, and kicking again; hooves slamming into heads and shoulders, hips and haunches knocking men about. Tearing at faces and necks with the fantastic metal spikes on his chamfron. Blood splattered the air like rain, from swords that were flashing down to meet swords flashing up in turn. He saw faces—a few—hard, tanned men from Ixti who might never have seen their own king as close as they saw death from a foreign sovereign.

He had to be careful, though; he dared not get too close. He was the King, and without him this could all collapse—for beyond Tryffon and four of his subchiefs, there was no clear chain of command. Another thing for the next Council—if it ever reconvened.

“Majesty!” A young voice, full of warning. Gynn whipped
his head around, barely in time to dodge a spear someone thrust at him—the first of those they’d encountered. He batted the shaft aside with a metal-clad forearm, and saw it glance across the horse’s chamfron, then lodge between two of its articulated plates. The horse jerked, then charged ahead—wrenching the shaft from the wielder’s hands, leaving him defenseless. Gynn left him for someone else to cut down, and spurred to the heart of the battle. That gave him a brief glance uphill toward the citadel, where his troops were converging on the breach like water through a ruptured dam.

Soon enough, those few Ixtians who made it through the wall would find themselves facing three Eronese to every one of them. It would be slow going, but there was no way they could win.

But there was also a hole in the wall, and no way to patch it now.

Still, he had two more walls behind him,
and
the citadel.

But then he heard something that chilled him. Distant, but not as far off as he liked.

More barking.

He paused, alert for the explosion.

And heard a whistling-hiss instead.

A crossbow bolt had found him.

It was good he’d opened his mouth to yell an order, because the point sailed between his teeth without touching them, and exited through his left cheek, just behind the guard. The pain was preposterous, but what bothered Gynn more was the fact that he was gagging and couldn’t speak.

Having no choice, he hauled his mount back, letting the battle surge ahead of him. Clamping his teeth over the shaft, and against the pain, he sheathed his sword and reached up with his free hand to grab the arrowhead. There was no point in breaking it in two, with the flesh of his cheek so thin. A yank got it partway through, but he almost passed out. His stomach twisted and threatened to revolt.

Another jerk, and the fletching tickled his tongue.

He did vomit then—an ignominious thing for a King—but a final yank freed the bolt. Blood coursed down his face,
but he had no time to worry about that. “Eron!” he yelled hoarsely, to let them know he lived.

“Eron!” the Guard roared back, and then more soldiers, as everyone in earshot took up the cry.

But another cry eclipsed all others, as a second explosion sent a section of wall farther on crashing down, isolating the tower that stood between. Gynn watched helplessly as blocks of stone as big as his head rose into the heavens, then rained down once more.

He ducked, tried to raise his shield, but choked on blood running down his throat and botched the movement. A block caught his shoulder and it went numb.

So it was that he was unable to shield himself from another that grazed the back of his skull. He saw the ground rush up to meet him, but Gynn never impacted.

Rather, he kept falling and falling and falling …

The Sword of Air had tasted blood but twice.

Avall was still reeling from being one place and then another, fast as thought. And still shivering from the effort. He blinked, staggered, found room for himself as men and women moved away from where he’d suddenly appeared in their midst. “Strynn,” he blurted, almost a demand: the first word off his lips being the last thing he’d thought before the gem had given him a wish he didn’t know he
had
wished, and brought him here.

He saw it all, too, in dreadful slow motion. Acts that took but instants to occur: Merryn pawing her way over the rampart, looking like death and resurrection together, eyes going wide as she recognized him, but dismissing him with a raised brow as she twisted around to help Strynn over the edge while crossbow bolts peppered the battlements and everyone along the edge who could raised a shield to cover those in the center.

He also saw Eddyn’s face—though Eddyn didn’t see him—as his rival let go and began his backward fall.

Peace
was what he saw there.

And what he wished on his rival, when he dared look where he sprawled bleeding in the snow.

Strynn was too shocked to notice him, besides which, he wore war gear, which didn’t render him instantly recognizable.

While Merryn tended her, he turned to help two others—deserters, he assumed—over the wall. The last man’s foot brought the last bit of rope ladder with it, and the tower was suddenly too full.

Especially when they heard the explosion to the east.

Where Avall had been.
Rann
, he thought in panic—but did not touch the gem. Instead, he wrenched off his helm, knelt by Strynn, and saw her grin at him, looking as savage as he’d ever seen her. Until her face clouded abruptly.

“Eddyn …?”

“Dead,” Avall answered dully, wondering why he felt loss instead of relief. In spite of Eddyn’s flaws, there was one less genius in the world. One less man capable of making wonders.

Merryn laid a hand on his shoulder. “Piece of wall went down over there. You might want to … on foot.”

“King’s moving,” someone else cried.

Yet still Avall hesitated, eyeing the captive Ixtians who were being summarily stripped of weapons and interrogated, while someone tried to tend the arrow that transfixed the man’s shoulder. He looked pale beneath his tan. But not familiar.

“Tozri!” Merryn cried. “Oh, Eight. And … Elvix?”