The Sons of Hull (35 page)

“Can’t we do something about it?”

“Such as? It’s part Destrariae, boy. Don't you feel it?”

“Sure. But we can’t just leave that wing torn as it is. Isn’t there some way to fight off the cold?”

Telenar shook his head. “None that I’ve heard of. Vancien is the only one who could get near the thing.”

“But Vancien’s not here. Permission to try, sir.”

Telenar had to admire Bren’s pluck, but such an idea was foolhardy. “There’s no way: its cold has killed men twice your size.”

“Maybe Kynell will help me.”

“Perhaps.” Why not let him try? What did any of them have to lose? “All right, go on. May Kynell keep you safe.”

Bren nodded and turned to Chiyo. “Do we have any extra cloaks or jackets, sir?”

Chiyo, who had been watching the exchange in interest, silently went to his pack and pulled out his riding jacket, which he gently put over Bren’s shoulders. The great wool garment dwarfed his small frame, but at least it would offer a little protection.

So armed, Bren advanced toward the Ealatrophe, who was beginning to paw the ground. Telenar watched anxiously as the young man came within a few paces, stopped, drew the jacket nearer around himself, and moved forward again. Soon, he was at the creature’s side, shivering but still alive. The Ealatrophe looked at him warily, then stiffened as Bren, whispering soothing, inarticulate words, began to gently appraise the wound. His teeth were chattering by the time he finished and hastened back to the others, who had blankets ready to receive him.

“It’s a c-c-clean c-cut. Looks like it’s f-from a sword.”

“That must have been Amarian and his dragon.” Telenar was staring thoughtfully at the beast, secretly relieved that some of his ache was turning into simple curiosity. “Nothing else could have—or would have—attacked him. The blow might have sent Vance tumbling. Did you see any other marks?”

“N-n-o, sir. Only that. And if-f you give m-m-me a few minutes and the right s-stuff, I’ll go back and s-see what I can do.”

Chiyo clapped his hand on Bren’s shoulder, not a little ashamed at his earlier behavior. “We will dress his wound, Bren. You’ve done enough for today.”

But Bren shook his head. “P-please let me do it, if it’s all the s-same. It’s the least I can do for V-Vancien.”

Chiyo noded, then abruptly turned to the rest of his men. “Back to work! This boy has shamed all of us.” They stared blankly at him, so he continued. “We can only restore our worth by redoubling our efforts to return home. As most have you have guessed, the Advocate of the Prysm has perished in his fight against Obsidian. Now we go to fight the one who killed him—to avenge him.”

Telenar watched Chiyo during the speech, certain that such a thing was impossible, but unwilling to crush what little hope the man had left. Kynell willing, they would all die fighting for the Prysm and join Vancien in the hereafter.

__________

It was a grand gathering. Gair, with clean bandages, was proudly mounted on a voyoté, patrolling the front lines of the assembled forces. He looked with justified pride over the congregation. The Keroulians were bright as always, with their shining blue and gold banners. No surprise there. It was their neighbors who drew Gair’s attention. Sentry after Sentry stood at attention, their arms polished, their faces gleaming with a resolution Gair had never seen before. Behind them stood the rest of Commander Hull’s multitudes, all of them, even the fennels, with their gaze fixed on one figure.

Gair saluted as Corfe ascended the makeshift stage. The past few days had wrought an astonishing transformation in the young man. Less than a week before, he had carried himself like a slave: disdainful toward his master but too scared to resist him. Now he was almost otherworldly. Even the Sentries and fennels were powerless before him, and the Keroulians welcomed his charisma as they welcomed the orblight. All knew that Kynell’s chosen stood among them, rightfully receiving the homage of prince and pridehead alike.

Lors and Farlone bowed deeply as Corfe approached them, although Farlone did so with some reluctance. He had expected to find his glory in Cylini blood out here on the frontier; instead, he had been dismissed by a taciturn Commander who then abandoned the camp, now he was being forced by popular will to submit to some upstart mystic who found himself “healed.” His brother Lors, on the other hand, had discovered his life’s calling. Here was the Advocate, the chosen one of the Prysm, and he as a Patroniite
had the distinct honor of serving him. Ever since Corfe had emerged from his tent with the Ages clutched in his hand, Lors had known. Who else but the Advocate could have his speech torn out by the Dark One and then have it restored by Kynell himself? Who else could command the loyalty of Sentries and fennels? Granted, the fact that Corfe was not Amarian’s brother was a problem, but that seemed like a technicality in the face of such momentous events; besides, had the two not been “brothers” in their service to Obsidian? Now this same young man stood on the stage, ready to address his legions and call down the wrath of Kynell on all who would oppose the Prysm. It was a stirring sight.

“Men of Keroul,” Corfe began, “Men of the West, Sentries, and fennels. Most of you, like me, have spent your life serving Obsidian. You have killed many times in its name and were often prepared to die for it. Sentries, I speak most directly to you: Zyreio has persuaded your entire kind to enter into slavish devotion to Obsidian and its servants. You have been branded as henchmen of evil, children’s worst nightmares.” Some of the Sentries shifted at this last statement, uncertain that these labels were objectionable, while others fanned their ears wide to catch every word.

Corfe noted their response. “You see? Even now, you’re not sure what to do with yourselves. What would life be without the slavery to which you’ve been accustomed? Is there life outside Obsidian? I am living proof that there is. Fennels,” he shifted his gaze to the brooding felines. “You chafe at Obsidian’s rule and rightly so. Kynell made you brilliant, free, and independent, but Zyreio has kept you enslaved. Now you must shake off cycles of stifling service to the evil one. Enjoy the freedom Kynell gave you and give him thanks for it.”

He stopped to let the words sink in. Then, as he expected, the fennels began to slowly shed their armor, stretch their agile limbs, and disappear one by one. Soon only a few remained of what had once been a full-sized regiment. Then those, too, nodded respectfully toward Corfe and left. The Sentries watched all of this with scorn. No matter what Corfe said, they were soldiers. Corfe only hoped that he could enlist them to fight on the proper side.

A fight was soon coming, of this he had no doubt. The Ages were clear that a violent battle inevitably took place between the two Advocates. His brief but intense scrutiny of the book these past few days had revealed that such a conflict could take place anywhere and at almost any time after the Dedication. Amarian’s return was imminent, but when he arrived, he would find an army arrayed against him. Battle would be unavoidable, and Corfe prayed fervently that the Sentries would not revert back to their old loyalties.

In truth, their support had been an unlooked-for blessing. When he had first returned, he had spent several hours in confession, during which he had pleaded with Kynell for forgiveness and direction, and had emerged from the tent fearing the worst. Surely any Sentry or fennel passing his way would notice a change, and if any subordinate heard him talking, he might request an explanation, which Corfe felt obliged—and excited—to honestly give.

Yet he expected no pleasant reaction to the news, and as the chief Sentry approached, he had steeled himself for any level of hostility.

After a respectful salute, Tarl had given his report. “The generals are assembled, sir. They await your presence.”

“Good. Tell them I’ll be with them shortly.”

Tarl began to bow his assent, then stopped, his leathery ears fanned. “Pardon me for asking, sir, but it appears your voice has been restored.”

Corfe nodded, then impulsively placed his hand on the Sentry’s shoulder. “You are a good soldier, Tarl. You value candor, so I will be perfectly honest with you.”

Tarl gazed at the offending hand with a dark expression, but Corfe continued.

“When I was in the marshes last night, my silence was broken.”

“By whom, sir? By the Dark One himself?”

“Amarian is gone. Off to be with his god. No, the power that healed me is greater than anything under Obsidian.”

“I was not aware such power existed.”

“You knew of it, although I doubt you knew its strength.”

Tarl snorted, sweeping his claw in the general direction of the Keroulian troops. “You mean the caper those men call a religion? Kynell?” He spat out the name in derision.

“That is the one who healed me, yes. And in my presence, I would be grateful if you did not speak of him with such disrespect.”

Tarl’s yellow eyes narrowed in disbelief. The human had certainly acquired new confidence over the night. “I am sorry, sir. I had not realized your opinion of the Prysm had changed so drastically. I will refrain from further offensive comments.”

Swallowing hard, Corfe shocked even himself with his next words. “I need more than your silence, Tarl. I need your support in this. I need the Sentries to change their allegiance.”

Tarl did not move. Had the human gone mad? Never before had a chief of the reptiles bowed knee to the Prysm. He wondered if he should strike Corfe down or just neutralize him until the Dark One returned. But he could not do either. Corfe was still his commanding officer and no religious conversion would change that. Still, abandoning Obsidian was not something to be done lightly.

“Sir, you must realize what you’re asking. Even if I were to do this thing, I cannot speak for my regiments. They have opposed the Prysm for thousands of cycles.”

“They will listen to you, Tarl.
That’s
what they’re made for: obedience. And it would not hurt to remind them that Obsidian has offered them no great rewards: a lifetime of unappreciated service, usually ending in painful death. Your kind are some of the most intelligent creatures that walk Rhyvelad. Surely your soldiers will see what service for Obsidian has done for them. Besides, I’m not asking you. I’m commanding you.”

Although Corfe’s logic did nothing to convince the Sentry, his insistence did. “As you will, sir. I will inform my regiments.”

And so the transformation of the camp had begun, spearheaded by the Sentries, who, having been informed of the change, fixated quickly on their new duties. What their personal thoughts were, few could guess, although Corfe suspected that some of them had not been displeased with Tarl’s words.

__________

Amarian’s pulse raced as the camp came into sight. It would be a small step to eliminate those useless Keroulian soldiers and their princes; the Sentries could dispatch them with little problem. The next move would then be to track down Telenar’s roving band. After that, the throne of Keroul. Then, perhaps, the domains of the West. He could almost taste the victories as he urged Ovna forward.

To his surprise, it appeared that the troops were already assembled. That was interesting. Perhaps Corfe suspected his arrival and decided to be prepared. That would be all the more appropriate for the entrance he wanted to make. But when heads began to turn as he came into view, he sensed confusion rather than pleasure. Were those princes up to something? Why call the army together, if not to herald his arrival?

Corfe, for his part, was not alarmed by the dragon’s shadow. He knew this hour would come. In truth, he was more interested in the reaction of his men than in Amarian. He did not move from his position on the platform, nor did his speech miss a beat. “Look!” he shouted, pointing to the descending beast. “Here is your chance to express your gratitude to Kynell. He has revealed to you the face of evil, the face of your oppressor! He sits astride that dragon and sneers down on us, believing us all to be pawns in Zyreio’s game. You, Sentries, who have never known a day of happiness in your lives—he is the cause! Men of Obsidian, be men, not the slaves he expects you to be! Men of Keroul, this man has always been your enemy. Now is the day to defeat him once and for—”

He was interrupted by a low pass from Ovna, who tried to silence him with a jet of flame. He leapt out of the way, but her attack ignited the small stage, sending himself and others scrambling. Immediately Gair shouted for the archers and the ballistae to fire when ready, but the dragon did not repeat her attack. Instead, she was hovering thoughtfully above the Sentry companies, which had not moved in all the tumult. As the dragon waited, Amarian’s calm voice floated down over them.

“Sentries, what are you doing? Have you so lightly abandoned me? What has this traitor promised you? Wealth? Happiness? Why do you, my greatest servants, let these men raise up arms against me? Why do you not defend—by the Chasm, you miserable stump of a man!”

His outburst was directed at Gair, who had interrupted his silken speech with a shot so close it nicked Amarian’s ear. The Sentries looked at him in astonishment as he drew another arrow, crying, “I said ‘Fire’! Archers, fire!”

Amarian was immediately besieged with arrows. With another oath, he moved Ovna out of range, but not before commanding the Sentries to attack the archers. To Corfe’s dismay, some of them actually did draw their weapons and lunge at the men. A melee broke out, and as the Keroulian infantry tried to force its way between the undefended archers and their attackers, a large group of Sentries under Tarl’s command turned relentlessly upon their own kind.