The Silver Lake (52 page)

And riding in the midst of Kursk’s lead banner, Graize let out a howl of laughter as he drank in the shock of Spar’s understanding as it hit the streams like a boulder flung into the waves. Standing in the saddle, he gave a mocking bow in the direction of Orzin-Hisar, knowing the younger boy could sense it.

“Yes, oh, yes, soon there’ll be more than just shock,”
he shouted at him, sending his hate flying back along the streams of power.
“Soon there’ll be panic and screaming and villagers running about in terror like ants around a drowning anthill, and you’ll be as powerless to prevent it as you’ve always been! The spirits’ll suck out your eyeballs and throw your body from the ramparts to be trampled by my Yuruk; but not before you see me put an arrow in someone’s eye and then our precious northern busybody’ll know I’ve beaten you both!”

The sudden image of the dark-haired figure rose up, threatening to send Graize’s mind listing to one side and he slapped the image of his stag beetle across it with an impatient gesture. He had no time for madness today and no time for ghosts, no matter how real they might be growing. No time for pathetic little dockside seers either, he sneered. He had a village to attack. With a howl of triumph, he flung one hand forward as Kursk led wave after wave of Yuruk down the hillsides.

Atop Orzin-Hisar, the voice reached out and tore the final shred of protective caul from Spar’s latent abilities with a single, savage gesture.

And Spar’s warning vision spewed from his mind like a pillar of flame.

Across the village, people came screaming to wakefulness as images of fire and death in the hands of the Yuruk exploded across their sleeping minds. In Bayard’s main room, the sense of sudden danger slammed into Brax’s dreams so hard he awoke with a gasp. His heart pounding in his chest, he stared uncomprehendingly into the darkness. How could the Yuruk be here, he thought fuzzily. They were supposed to be at Yildiz-Koy; all the seers had said so. Turning, he reached out for Spar and found nothing. The pallet was empty.

Tossing the blanket aside with a curse, he fumbled for his clothes as Bayard’s family began shouting and crying in confusion all around him then, after jerking his tunic over his head, he snatched up his weapons and ran for the back door, making for the garden wall without thought for anything but Spar.

Outside, the village was in chaos, people running everywhere while the militia officers shouted for their troops to come together. Above the din, Brax could hear Badahir’s calm, distinctive voice calling her people to form up in the central square and he nearly checked at the sound, Estavia’s lien demanding a physical response. But he had to find Spar first; he had to know he was all right, then he would fight, he promised, just help him find Spar. The God’s presence rose in willing response, compelling him toward Orzin-Hisar, and he sprinted for the tower as its great, bronze bell began to toll.

“Be there,” he panted. “Just like you’ve been every morning since we got here.
Be
there.”

The tower’s stone bulk rose up before him and he rocked to a halt as he caught sight of a small, blond figure standing on the battlements, arms raised awkwardly toward the rising sun as if warding off a blow. He swayed dangerously close to the edge, but just as Brax was about to shout to him, he saw Jaq’s great head rear up to catch the younger boy by the back of the jacket and pull him out of sight. Heart in his throat, Brax started for the tower door, but with Spar’s safety assured, the Battle God’s lien stopped him in his tracks and he nodded in acceptance. Estavia had kept Her word, Spar was safe, now Brax would keep his word, too. Turning, he ran for the streams of militia heading for the village square.

Badahir was shoving the adults into line when he arrived. As soon as they managed a simple cohesion, they made for the God-Wall, bows at the ready, and Brax joined them, his vision already covered with a fine red mist.

The excitement that rose with the memory drove whatever fear he might have been feeling away as they reached the wall, but rather than go over it, to his surprise, the militia began to form a long, thin line behind it. He snapped his teeth together in frustration even though he understood why. The wall was their only real physical defense; they couldn‘t, and shouldn’t, race out to face an unknown enemy; they’d be slaughtered, but everything he was wanted to leap over it anyway.

Pulling back behind the line, he made himself take a deep breath to still the insistent internal itch that kept trying to take control of his sword hand. A good lifter never just leaped over anything, he reminded himself sternly. A good lifter waited patiently for the right opportunity; for the
safe
opportunity to act, ignoring need and greed alike, or he’d get pinched. A good fighter had to be the same, or he’d get
killed
and that would end his service to Estavia before it even began.

“So, stop being an idiot,” he growled. “You’re Her Champion. Act like one.”

Crouching, he drew his fingers through a muddy puddle, bringing them up slowly and deliberately to draw the outlines of the wards he painted every morning on his arms and chest: Anavatan, Estavia-Sarayi, Cyan Company, himself, Spar, Jaq, Kemel and Yasher, and Her Wall; using the familiar movements to still the buzzing in his body. Then, feeling Her lien thrumming through him in approval, he headed back the way he’d come. When he reached the end of the line, he clambered onto the wall where it met Orzin-Hisar and, using the tower’s bulk to shield himself from both the militia and the steady streams of noncombatants alike, he peered over at the empty livestock paddocks where a second line of militia were already forming up. A good lifter—and a good fighter—chose the best ground and waited for the mark—the enemy—to come to him, his thoughts continued in a deliberately lecturing tone. And the enemy would come here because although most of Serin-Koy’s livestock were out in the western pasture fields he could already see the frightened shepherds driving them back toward the safety of the walled paddocks and that was what the enemy wanted: Serin-Koy’s sheep and goats and oxen, even the horses if they could get them. So any attack they made elsewhere was a feint; the
real
attack would be here. Drawing his sword, he pressed the hilt against his chest, feeling the Battle God stir in anticipation of bloodshed and glory.

“And so I will. I swear it.”

Taking a deep breath, he peered out at the western fields.

The Yuruk were in sight now, a dark; swirling mass of horses and riders fanning out across the newly planted fields, racing the morning wind. A hail of arrow fire fell short and he heard Badahir shouting for the militia to hold their own fire and not waste their shafts. As a dozen Yuruk peeled off toward the paddocks, a company of mounted villagers leaped over the God-Wall to defend them, and for the first time in his life Brax wished he could ride as the pounding of hooves sounded overloud in his ears. This close to real combat, the God’s lien rose up inside him, and he suddenly felt himself standing on the fields of Yildiz-Koy, lines of infantry and cavalry facing the enemy to either side of him. As they closed, he felt rather than heard the seers’ invocation to Estavia.

With the rest of Her people, he felt Her response begin as a growing sense of bloodlust in his veins and a tingling in his hands.