The Prince of Exiles (The Exile Series) (5 page)

“Simple enough even for someone too scared to carry his own sword,” Davydd muttered so only Raven could hear him.

Again, he pointedly ignored the young man’s barb. His interactions with Davydd often went like this – the red-eyed son of General Goldwyn trying to prod Raven into an argument, Raven pointedly ignoring him. The sword by his side was plain steel – of good make, and well cared for, but plain steel nonetheless. Aemon’s Blade, the sword Davydd was mocking him over, was tied behind his horse’s saddle, tucked carefully away. At first he had left it at camp, thinking no one would be foolish enough to try to touch it. But then a small child, one of the many sons of the frugal Captain Philander, had touched it on a dare and been thrown backward twenty feet into a tree, hand burned as if by a brand. No one blamed Raven – he’d packed the sword away carefully out of sight – but he’d carried it with him ever since. Though, truth be told, he wished he could have left it back in Vale. He wanted nothing to do with it.

The Blade marked him out as Aemon’s Heir, the last of the line of Aemon, the founder of the Kindred. But, because everyone knew that Aemon’s Heir was also the former Prince of Ravens, wearing it, or even just being close to the damned thing, was enough to make half of the Kindred swoon, and the other half spit as he walked past. It was the latter of the two groups that had angered Leah – and she had taken to challenging anyone who she saw cursing him. It was a testament to the girl’s fearsome reputation that no one had taken her up on it.

Suddenly they heard a distant sound that seemed to be voices raised in cheer; another noise followed it, the sound of clanging metal, thin and distant. The whole troop stopped what they were doing and turned to look out over the cliff, down the mountainside, to the castle of Roarke, where a tide of figures was sweeping through the gates.

It was the sound of Kindred victory.

“Congratulations,” said Raven slowly, emotions tangled and knotted inside him. “It would appear you’ve taken the city.”

A series of loud cries came from behind them and Raven turned to see the Kindred cheering as they slapped each other on the back.

“Come now,” Robbit said, turning to Davydd. “Surely there is no more need to fear. Let’s go to the city – now! We can make it back to the main road with the dying light and use the stars to guide us the rest of the way. There will be feasting and dancing tonight – you know we cannot miss it!”

For a moment everyone held their breath, and then Davydd smiled and they knew they’d won.

With cries of excitement, they all went to their horses, mounted, and began to ride off, Davydd not far behind.

“Davydd,” Leah said, “I don’t think this is – ”

“Come on!” Said her brother with a huge, infectious grin, leaping astride his own horse. “We’ve had week after week of misery, let’s celebrate!”

And he was off, leading the column of Kindred.

Leah made a sound of annoyance, but mounted her own horse, a sleek roan that matched her own grace, and was off before Tomaz and Raven could do so much as say a word.

Tomaz and Raven both looked at each other, and then moved slowly to their mounts. Raven knew the big man was just as eager as the rest of them to celebrate, but galloping his way to Roarke on the recalcitrant Mary seemed no doubt unappealing. Raven, on the other hand, was trying to think of a way to get out of joining in any kind of celebration – his twisted loyalties were difficult to navigate as it was.

There was a rustling behind them, the barest sound. Raven felt a strange brush of life against his mind and turned to see what it was, thinking one of the Kindred had left something behind and was returning to claim it.

What he saw were two large, skeletal forms wearing black armor, unlimbering razor-sharp weapons made of enchanted onyx, their eyes the only things about them still living, green and glowing with unholy zeal.

For a brief moment, Raven didn’t understand what was happening – and then the two Death Watchmen, the undead Imperial assassins, converged on him with grating cries of excitement that spurred him into action.

“TOMAZ!”

The cry was equal parts warning and plea – the first construct ran at him, lifting a long, wicked scimitar and Raven reacted on instinct, seizing the hilt of his sword and taking a step back, drawing the first of the Watchmen in as the second veered away toward Tomaz. The lean corpse construct rushed forward.

Raven unsheathed the steel sword at his side as the first Watchman rushed forward; he feinted left, then stepped forward and reversed the blow like Tomaz had taught him. The blade looped around the scimitar and sliced through the Death Watchmen’s hands, severing them at the wrists.

For a brief moment, the Death Watch construct just stood there, dumbly staring at its stumps. A foul, green ichor oozed from the dead veins, hissing and burning when it hit the ground. The Watchman gathered itself and roared in Raven’s face, unleashing a sound and smell that could only come from beyond the grave. It lunged at him, trying to kill him even without weapons.

Without any further need of encouragement, Raven hefted his blade and threw his weight into a horizontal swing that decapitated the creature. The Bloodmagic spell holding it together broke and the creature fell to the ground in pieces, where it began instantly to decompose.

“Well done!” Roared the giant. Raven spared a glance in his direction and saw that Tomaz had just performed the same maneuver on the second Watchman with his greatsword Malachi, a huge swath of steel nearly as long as Raven was tall. Both of the constructs lay decomposing at their feet.

 
They looked around wildly, breathing heavy, ready for the rest of the Death Watchman group to come at them, ready for the soldiers who followed the constructs.

But they were alone in the clearing. No sound came to them but their own heavy breathing as the bodies of the constructs dissolved into bits and pieces, their enchanted lives ended and the Bloodmagic dissipating.

A breeze picked up and blew heavily through the trees, and with it came the smell of … nothing. Trees. Clean air – that was all.

“Just two?” Raven asked, hands still gripping his sword tightly. The damn thing was too light – Valerium was the only metal that felt right in his hands anymore. But he’d rather use this than suffer the stares that came with wearing Aemon’s Blade. His eyes flicked over to his horse, where the fabled sword was sheathed on the creature’s back.

No stares here now.

“They travel in pairs,” Tomaz said, though he too was watching the surrounding clearing with heavy suspicion.

For a long moment they just stood there, both in the strange reactionary mode of living brought on by sudden battle. But as time passed and their breathing returned to normal, it became clear that they were again alone.

Except that the hairs on the back of Raven’s neck were standing on end, and the Raven Talisman was warm. Not the hot, tingling sensation that meant life was close and that he could reach out and touch it; this was more subtle. He could feel, moving off into the distance, the rest of the Kindred troop, all of whom were oblivious as to what had just happened – the wind was rushing the wrong way, carrying any sound off over the cliff. He could feel Tomaz –
red and gold, lavender soap, masculine musk and the sound of a hammer pounding steel –
but nothing more.

And yet …

Raven strode to his horse, sheathed the plain steel sword, and drew Aemon’s Blade. As soon as the wire-wrapped hilt touched his palm, his heart began to beat faster and his mind cleared. This was part of the reason he tried to leave the sword alone when he didn’t need it – the clarity it brought was an all too clear reminder that it was no normal weapon, and he, the Prince of Ravens, had had too much experience with Bloodmagic to be entirely comfortable with it. The Kindred insisted it was not the same as what the Imperial Bloodmages did in their rituals, but in his mind Bloodmagic was Bloodmagic, and he wanted nothing to do with it.

Raven reached out once more through the Talisman. He opened his eyes and allowed his mind to expand as well, taking in every detail as fast as he could, seeing it, hearing it, smelling it, judging whether it was useful, and filing it away or discarding it as unimportant. He reached out farther, looking for the wavering half-alive points of life that would be other Death Watchmen lying in wait nearby; they existed as half-men, beings that were reanimated by the dark magic of the Bloodmages and given malicious intent, tasked only with assassination. They were the bogeymen that made the citizens of the Empire fear displeasing the Children.

But the forest was clear. The wavering, half-points of light were absent. There was just the muted background haze of trees and forest, the lives of the rest of the Kindred troop, some few hundred yards or more distant.

Wait … there are too many.

“Tomaz!” He cried out. “There’s more!”

Six dark forms, half living half dead, unfolded themselves from the shadows and ran for him, ignoring the big man on the other side of the clearing.

“TOMAZ!” Yelled Raven again, sinking into a defensive stance and raising Aemon’s Blade, knowing he was doomed against such odds unless the other man made it in time to help.

And help he did: with a roar, Tomaz took a running leap and launched himself clean across the clearing, bowling over three of the Watchmen with his enormous bulk.

But the remaining three paid no mind. Two onyx swords and an onyx ax flashed at him in the light of a rising moon, and Raven met them with Aemon’s Blade.

They began a deadly whirling dance that courted death with every step. Green, sickly eyes, bored at him through the darkness of the night, so bright they left glowing trails across his field of vision. He began to collect minor wounds – a cut here, a scrape there – but with Aemon’s Blade in his hand he barely felt them. The Valerium sword, a shining white beacon, flashed and cut into the mortified flesh of the demons. Green ichor, bright in the darkness, flowed where the enchanted metal struck, and soon all three were hissing in pain as the metal bit and burned and pushed them back.

Raven stepped close, severed a foot from a dying leg, strode past a screeching, falling form, and thrust his Blade through another decaying chest. He tugged and the sword came free, pivoted and reversed the slice, decapitating the fallen form of the Watchman; he lunged forward, bent a knee and thrust the Blade through the second construct’s chin, pushing it up and through what was left of the brain and severing the Bloodmage spell that kept it anchored to life.

And then the third Watchman stepped forward, and brought his onyx sword slashing down in a flash of darkness.

Pain lanced through Raven’s shoulder, an icy cold bite, followed by fire that raced through his body. He screamed as the Blade fell from his grip, his hand now numb and useless, his muscles severed.

“Raven!” Roared Tomaz, who had seen him from where he was fighting his own Watchmen, unable to come to his aid.

Somehow, through the raging pain, Raven made a lunging grab for Aemon’s Blade with his remaining hand – just as the Watchman struck with a heavy boot and kicked the sword across the clearing.

“No!” Raven gasped. The Blade was completely out of reach, almost all the way to Tomaz, and there was no way he’d be able to reach it in time.

The Death Watchman jerked the sword from Raven’s shoulder, and the pain was so intense he nearly blacked out. The world spun and tipped and he hardly knew which way was up.

“Die,” hissed the Death Watchman, its pale, unearthly eyes smiling in glee. It raised the onyx sword above its head –

“RAVEN!” Roared a voice.

Tomaz cut down his final attacker, his greatsword Malachi singing through the air, and as the construct fell, the giant bent and picked up Aemon’s Blade.

But it was too late – the onyx blade fell. Raven, unable to do anything else, pulled his knees up and kicked out, hitting the Death Watchman in the chest, trying to gain a moment of separation, hoping against hope it would send the thrust awry.

Sudden light flooded the clearing, a harsh, searing blaze; strength surged through his body and his booted feet connected with the skeletal form, lighting all of his muscles on fire and sending the construct flying across the clearing, to end up
buried
in the trunk of a tree.

There was a stunned moment of silence where incomprehension rang through all of them, and then the tree produced a
cracking
sound, and the whole thing began to fall – backwards over the cliff.

The look on the Watchman’s face was almost comical. Embedded in the tree it couldn’t move; it could only cry out with a shrieking, wordless shout of surprise and fury, and then it was gone, tumbling end over end, crashing down the mountain.

Raven rose, blood flowing freely from the hole in his shoulder. His whole body was flooded with strength – he felt as though he could leap to the top of the nearest mountain. His wound even felt better, felt like nothing at all. He turned to cross to the edge of the cliff to see where the Watchman had landed, but instead he pulled up short.

Tomaz was standing in the middle of the clearing, holding Aemon’s Blade. The sword was shining with a bright red light, as if the white metal had been dipped in blood and set on fire. Perhaps triggered by Raven’s gaze, the light flickered and dimmed, and Raven felt the sudden influx of strength he’d received falter and die. His head went fuzzy and the world around him tilted violently; his legs gave out, and he found himself eye-level with the ground.

It took Tomaz the space of a second to cross the clearing and grab him, and only slightly longer to bind his wound with a torn piece of shirt, and launch them both down the mountain trail, running like a madman. Aemon’s Blade lit the way, held high in Tomaz’s hand as it painted the world in a weak, flickering red light.