The Prince of Exiles (The Exile Series) (52 page)

He, no one else, was responsible for what his family had done. For what had been done in the name of the Empress, and in
his
name.

How far I’ve come,
the Prince thought with a weary mental sigh,
how much I’ve gone through and how far I have yet to go.

And despite it all, despite the fact he knew he’d let her down, the fact he should stop thinking of her, he still wished he could have Leah by his side once more.

The next meeting of the Council went much the same, culminating in a series of raised voices, this time belonging to Ishmael and Henri Perci, who were once more engaged in argument – Perci with his belligerent, bucolic aggression, and Ishmael with his quiet, sophisticated reserve.

The argument, as all their arguments had been, was pointless. They were a few days north of Roarke now, and they were truly at a crossroads, where they would either make for the northern parts of the Empire, or make a line for Tibour. The Prince knew this Council was important, knew this was his last chance to convince them. And yet, he still felt hopeless. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could say to …

The Prince noticed something different.

A boy was at the entrance to the tent. He had a soldier’s hat on that covered his face, but there was something familiar about him. The others noticed him looking and turned to look as well, though it took Henri Perci a few minutes to come out of his latest tirade and realize no one was listening anymore. The Prince went to the boy and knelt in front of him, pulling off the hat he wore to get a better look at him. Black hair and startling blue eyes – it was Tym, the quiet boy from Vale, the one he’d brought back with Aemon’s Blade.

“Why are you here Tym?” He asked quietly. “Why did your father let you come with us – this is not something for boys.”

Tym screwed up his face and stood at his full, less than impressive height.

“My – my father is dead, Prince Raven, he got very sick. So I don’t have any parents anymore, which means I’m not a boy, I’m a grown-up. And I’m here to help you. I’m a helper. Mr. Davydd always said so.”

The Prince’s face fell, though he tried to conceal his emotions from the boy. Tym looked like he was ready to cry, but he was holding it in. The Prince reached out and felt the boy’s life again, the smell of old books and dusty pages, now coupled with a sense of loss, and the image of a tree split in half by lightning.

“Do you have a message?” Asked the Prince. The boy’s eyes widened, and the sudden way he held his body spoke of fear.

“We got blocked,” Tym said, his eyes shifting uncomfortably from the Prince to the gathered generals, back to the Prince, to the Prince’s boots, to other objects, in no discernable order.

“Blocked?” Asked the Prince.

“By a Daemon,” said the boy, barely above a whisper.

The silence in the tent following these simple words was profound.

“Which road?”

“The road north Prince Raven,” Tym said, still unable to keep his eyes focused on any one thing or person. He was fidgeting with his shirt as well, with a hole in the hem.

A Daemon blocking the road north, forcing them toward Dysuna and the deadly grasslands and desert of Tibour.

“Fortuitous,” Henri Perci said immediately. “That ends our debate – we head for Tibour.”

The General turned to Tym.

“You know that it is a crime to lie about military matters? This is not a game boy, you must tell us all the truth or men could die.”

“I do not lie,” Tym said, voice very quiet but proud. “I swear the Daemon is there.”

“Good – and it is contained for now?” He asked, his contempt for the quiet, reserved boy clear on his face. The boy, seeing the contempt, nodded almost too quickly, and stayed silent.

“Well,
how
?” Perci continued, taking a step forward. The boy almost ran out of the tent then, but the Prince leaned forward and held out a calming, supplicating hand.

“Wait,” he said. “Please Tym, how are we containing the Daemon?”

For a long moment the boy still looked like he would run, but then he quickly crossed to the Prince and whispered into his ear.

“It isn’t moving,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Ranger Davydd said that he thinks it’s bound to the mountains we’re trying to pass between. There are soldiers there too … they’re Defenders, I could tell by their shirts. Mr. Davydd said to tell you that, and also that he doesn’t see any Bloodmages.”

The Prince nodded. It made sense – such things were certainly possible. It was difficult, and it took a full circle of thirteen Bloodmages to maintain such a thing, but no doubt the Empire had Bloodmages to spare for defenses like this. The Defenders were no doubt there to relay messages of an approaching force – like the Kindred army.

They know we’re headed north, they set a trap for us. They’ll expect us to turn aside and make for Tibour. But this is just the first wave of defense, not an attack; someone is trying to divert us, likely buying time to mobilize.

“Thank you for telling me,” he said to Tym. He then stood and turned to face Henri Perci, reminding himself to keep calm.

“The Daemon is holding steady between the mountains we were trying to cross between. It is
forcing
us toward the grasslands of Tibour.”

“Like I said, good,” repeated Perci dismissively. “Our forces will have an easier time moving through the lowlands in any case – we can leave the Imperial Road and make straight for the Wolf without any further ado.”

He motioned to one of the runners waiting nearby that would carry messages to the rest of the camp.

“Tell the men to pack up, the time has come to –”

“You will carry no such message.”

Henri Perci turned slowly to the Prince.

“Did I just hear you contradict me?”

“Yes,” said the Prince simply. “Unless your ears are as useless as what’s between them.”

The whole tent went deadly quiet. Spader perked up and shifted position as if getting a better view at the start of a prizefight, but the rest of the Generals had frozen, and were looking between the two men, unsure of where their allegiances lay.

“You are a figurehead,” said Perci, “and you will do as I say.”

“I am your Prince, chosen by the people. And you will do as
I
say.”

“I command the majority of these men,” said Perci, staring daggers at the Prince, “and will not let them be led by some Imperial outcast. Do not make the mistake of raising your hand against me –
you will lose.
”

“You have
forced
my hand
,
” said the Prince, feeling a level of contempt for the man the likes of which he hadn’t felt for anyone in his life. “You are leading a
majority of these men
to death! You have no idea what it is you’re up against. All of you, you fight and squabble with each other, trying to turn this into some kind of rule by common consent. You – will – lose – this – war. We are going north, we
have to!
If we go to Dysuna, then we are dead before anything has begun. This is an obvious trap, the first of the Empire’s defenses, how can you not see that?”

“You have no place among us – you have no say in our councils!”

“DAMN your councils!”

They were all staring wide-eyed, wavering between the two men.

“Even if we wanted to go north,” Perci said with contempt, “we can’t. There is no way to go – the pass is blocked by a Daemon and a troop of Defenders! It will take weeks to go around it, and we could lose hundreds of men or more fighting a Daemon in an entrenched position. I will not waste men in such a way, and I will not allow us to waste time skirting these hills when we need to be going a completely different direction in the first place! We cannot go through them – we must attack Tibour!”

“Your only true argument is that the pass is blocked?” The Prince asked, his anger riding him like a beast, his blood hot inside his itching fingers.

“I will command
no man
to go against a Daemon!” Roared Perci, spittle flying from the sides of his mouth. “We need our force to deal with the Wolf. If the pass were clear, you would have a point, maybe even a valid one, but it is not, and I will not send a single man or woman to their death on such a fool’s errand!”

“How about a Child?” He asked. Perci’s eyes narrowed.

He turned to Tym before the general could respond.

“Take me to the Daemon.”

Tym turned and ran from the tent. The Prince followed, thinking quickly. He dropped a hand to his side and rested it on the hilt of Aemon’s Blade, his constant companion these days.

It’s Valerium, it will work. And if it doesn’t, well then your worries are over and someone else can lead the thrice-damned Exiles.

“That man is not to be listened to!” Roared the voice of Henri Perci behind him. The Prince shot a look over his shoulder and saw the lieutenant general following him. Elder Keri and a group of her Healers stopped what they were doing as he crossed their path and watched him go before falling into quickstep behind him. Spader and Ishmael followed close behind as well, and the rest of the Generals seemed torn between staying in Council and following everyone else.

But the Prince ignored them all and continued on, anger goading him. Months spent in Council doing nothing, with no one to fight, no enemy to best. Now he had something to go against; he had an enemy that he could kill.

“No solider of the Kindred is to take orders from that man!” Roared Perci again, motioning to the Prince, only gathering a bigger crowd.

The Prince didn’t care – he just followed Tym to the north edge of camp. His mind was clear. He embraced the Raven Talisman, and the world leapt into focus; a thousand details, sights, sounds, and smells, all came to him at once as he felt himself connect to the flow of life around him.

Tym stopped and turned to him, looking very frightened.

They had arrived at the last row of tents. The Prince looked out across the dry, dusty plain and saw the Daemon forming, felt the life coming into being as he looked into the swirling maelstrom atop the mountain pass. His thoughts turned idly to the process of making a Daemon – it took a full circle of thirteen Bloodmages, the leader of which had managed to harvest the essence of one of the four primary elements, earth, water, air, or fire. The element was combined with the life force of sacrificed men and women stored in the crystal Soul Catcher medallions Bloodmages wore on chains around their necks, giving it the power of raw nature and the malicious intent of a fell primordial spirit.

The Daemon was forming at the junction of a simple pass – a wedge shaped cut between two huge formations of rock that reared up into the sky and branched out miles to the east and west. It would take days to go around, days of walking in hot, arid land, which was all there was in this part of Lucia.

The maelstrom built and began to shoot tongues of flame into the air, fire so bright it dimmed even the midday sun.

“Fire Daemon,” Raven said simply, confirming it for himself.

That’s the worst kind and you know it. Damn.

He saw someone come even with him out of the corner of his eye and he turned; it was Davydd and a number of other Rangers, all bearing Valerium weapons, who had come to the forefront of the camp and formed a defensive perimeter in case the Daemon attacked. Valerium was the only thing that could cut the creatures enchanted skin. Not that it would matter too much with a Fire Daemon – likely it would just spew flames at them from a hundred yards.

The pass needs to be clear. We need to go north – we need to break through this defense while it is still weak. I won’t risk anyone else’s life on this – they’ll be in danger soon enough anyway, and who knows what Perci will do if I try.

“Don’t interfere,” he told Davydd. The red-eyed man looked at him, at first with amusement as if he’d told a joke, and then with mounting alarm as he took in the look on the Prince’s face.

The Prince strode forward, and unsheathed Aemon’s Blade, feeling its comforting weight in his hand, the wire-wrapped hilt cool against his palm – he didn’t like to fight with gauntlets. He liked to the feel his sword – it was an extension of his body, just the way the right sword should be.

He continued forward, hearing Davydd calling for him to stop, and fear began to bubble up beneath his anger and determination, but he crushed the emotion ruthlessly. He was a Prince again, and he had no time for such things.

When he was a hundred yards away he saw the men – it looked like a small guard of Defenders, no more than twenty, arranged in standard formation. Likely there had been as many as twenty-five, but the rest had been sent as runners to alert the Empire of their approach. The surprise was gone.

The raging storm of fire, burning, searing the air in front of him, flowed down the mountain, pooling in a cloud of steam and smoke, twisting and writhing until it began to take shape.

Voices continued to call out from behind him, but the Prince didn’t spare the time to listen; he needed all of his focus on what he was about to do. He would need strength for this – he would need the life of the Defenders.

The Daemon will attack first, they will hang back. I’ll need to go for them when it’s coming for me. Maybe … maybe when it turns to follow, I’ll get lucky and it’ll get some of them as well.

When he was no more than fifty yards away from the raging fire, the Daemon formed into a whole being. It rose up before him, impossibly tall, with eyes that burned so brightly they were pure white, hotter than the raging fire of the sun and more cruel than the burning torment of hell.

Voices cried out behind him, telling him to come back, some simply shrieking his name, apparently thinking he was sacrificing his life. Perhaps he was. But no matter; if they couldn’t pass beyond this, the Kindred were lost already.

The Daemon towered over him, four, maybe five times his height, staring down with molten eyes set in a curved, merciless face the color of burning leather, framed by great horns of pure white bone. It flowed down the mountain on two huge, powerful legs, roaring at him, its tongue lashing the air. He could feel the heat of the thing from here – he didn’t know how he would be able to get closer.

The Daemon solved that problem for him – it broke free of the pass and ran toward him, on legs made of burning brimstone, unfurling enormous wings that were the cracked black and red of dried magma.

The Prince’s mind went blank, and he focused on a small dip in the ground in front of him. He fell into the defensive sword form King in the Castle, and the creature came on, roaring, already anticipating its triumph.

At the last second the Prince dropped the stance and dove forward.

The Daemon shrieked as it pounced, fire shooting from its mouth to burn him where he stood – but its momentum carried it past the dip in the ground where the Prince had taken refuge, leaving him unscathed.

He shot out of the fold in the ground, his heart beating in his throat, his limbs heavy, his vision dangerously narrow. He ran forward, driven by predatory fear, and reached through the Raven Talisman, knowing he only had one shot.

The Defenders were completely surprised by his appearance– so surprised, they hadn’t even taken the time to raise their shields. The Prince slipped Leah’s dagger from his belt and hurled it at the first man, catching him in the neck.

He fell, and the Prince’s life doubled, strength flowing into him, the world seeming to slow down as he sped up. He raised Aemon’s Blade and cut down another man, and that life was added onto his as well.

The Defenders finally came to their senses, readying an attack – but before a single one of them could do a thing, there was a screech from behind, the sound of metal claws on rock, and the Prince dropped immediately to the ground, taking cover, praying to whatever gods may be listening that this plan would work.

Heat rushed over him, so hot he felt as though his skin would catch fire, but in the next instant it was gone, passed over him. Flames burned through his vision as he looked up and saw the Daemon crash into the squad of Defenders. The Prince felt their lives die in burning horror as the Daemon’s skin touched them, and he immediately pulled back, grabbed Leah’s dagger, and ran down the hill with all his might.

One of the Defenders who had survived, who had ducked as he had, swung at him as he passed – a blow that would have taken his head if he hadn’t absorbed the lives of this man’s two companions. The Prince responded on instinct, moving unnaturally fast, and Aemon’s Blade cut through the soldier’s exposed stomach. With a cry of disbelief, the man fell and died.

The Prince surged forward, powered now by three new lives, the blood in his veins hot and pounding, his head clouded with memories and the world whirling around him, his vision so sharp he could see individual cracks in the rocky ground, his sense of smell so honed the scent of the Defender’s burning flesh pounded in his nostrils. He heard the cry of the Daemon, the bird-like screech combined with the animalistic snarl, and he spun to face it. The creature had righted itself, its large wings flapping, buffeting him with gusts of wind. It screeched into the air, a sound that chilled his blood, and then flew for him. He flowed forward, ducking low, striking with Aemon’s Blade as he cried out in anger and fear. The blade bit through and severed one of the creature’s legs as it passed above him, the white metal cutting through the enchanted flesh almost without resistance. The leg fell to the ground, burning and hissing in the air, and then exploded into a shower of embers and ash as it crumbled apart.

The Daemon cried out – a sound that rent the sky and nearly deafened the Prince, who was running as quickly as he could up the mountain once more, looking for a place to hide. The creature flowed after him, enraged, it’s burning face shifting and changing, molding itself into a terrible beak that shrieked at him and descended as if to eat him. Its wings grew, its fiery shape twisting and morphing, and then it was right above him.

He rolled to the side, swinging his sword in a huge arc to cover him, and was rewarded by another cry of pain as the sword scored across the Daemon’s face, taking out one of its eyes. It reared back, staggering away, wings flapping and crashing against the rocky pass, burning huge swathes of ground. It opened its mouth, now formed into two heavy jaws, and breathed out fire in a huge, gushing jet.

The Prince knew this was his only chance – if the fight continued, he would die. He dove forward, just ducking the stream of fire; he came to his feet, and thrust Aemon’s Blade up and through the creature’s jaw.

The Daemon exploded in a cascade of fire and burning sulfur. The Prince cried out and flung himself to the ground, feeling his cloak catch fire. He rolled, terrified out of his mind that he was about to be burnt alive, feeling suffocated in the ash of the dying creature. Time passed, and the Prince continued to roll in the burning debris, coming to his feet and diving down the mountain, gathering what was left of his cloak around him as the Daemon’s enchantment unraveled and exploded outwards in meteors of fire. He ducked one last time, diving to the ground, and all was silent.

And then a pair of small hands was beating him. A blanket was thrown over him, and the smell of burning cloth drowned out the smell of sulfur and smoke.

He came to his feet, looking around wildly, and saw that the creature’s death had burned the rocks and ground in a circle nearly fifty yards across. His cloak hung about him in tatters, and large patches of his thick clothing had been burned away, though his new Prince armor had survived intact. The exposed skin of his face felt raw and tight, as if he were badly sunburned, but otherwise he was alive.

He looked down, and found Tym. He looked at the blanket he was wearing and realized it was soaking wet – the boy must have gone to get it the moment he realized what the Prince had been about to do.

“Thank you Tym,” he said to the boy, trying to keep his face and tone from showing the fear he still felt coursing through him.

Shadows and light! SHADOWS AND GODDAMN LIGHT!

“You’re welcome Prince Raven sir,” he said in a tone of wonder.

The Prince looked again at the burned rocks and blasted heath, and realized how completely
stupid
he’d been to do what he’d just done. He’d had no right to survive that, no right at all. All of his luck, for the rest of his life, must be gone, used up just now in one big flash to keep him alive through that bit of foolhardy stupidity.