The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle) (91 page)

For a moment Cob stared at the place where he had been, uncomprehending.  He wanted to close his eyes and fall back into that Darkness; it felt like his heart had been torn open, though when he looked to his chest he saw only a few rips in his shirt, and no blood.  Everything was wet, and as he struggled to a sitting position he saw the courtyard full of puddles, the scorched earth swiftly turning to bog.

Not far away, Fiora coughed up a lungful of water and wedged herself onto an elbow.  “You all right?” she rasped.

He stared at her.  Glass covered the front of her shield and had adhered to her chainmail at chest and coif, the cloth burned away by the heat of first impact.  A few spots of glass glittered on her cheek too, the skin ruddy.  Yet even after being struck by the molten explosion, she had not run; she had come right back into the fray in time to be engulfed by the Dark water.

A rill of horror ran up his spine at what he could have done.  Shaking, still incapable of coordinating his limbs enough to rise, he said, “What the pike were you tryin’ to do?”

She blinked, and he saw flecks of glass in her eyelashes.  “Protect you.”

“Protect me?”  The fear he had not felt during the fight took control of his voice.  “Protect me from the Ravager?  What made you think you could do that?  Light curse it, woman, I told you to get back, why couldn’t y’ listen to me?”

“
You didn’t say—“

“
Don’t you have eyes?  Couldn’t you see it was pikin’ deadly to get close?”

Her face firmed.  “Look, Cob, I’m the one who saved you in Haaraka—“

“Because he forgot you were there!”

“
He wasn’t paying me any attention this time either!  It was the same thing!”

“
No it wasn’t!  He—  He had wings!  Fire!  Y’ didn’t see the pikin’ fire?”

“
I’m a Trifolder, I’m not afraid of—“

“
You should be!  All the Trifolders who came here, they all died!  And you saw him!  He was beatin’ the crap outta me, what made you think you could—“

“
Well, if I snuck up on him—“

“
You’d get pikin’ electrocuted!”

“
So what, you want me to just stand aside?”

“
Yeah, if you’re gonna get killed otherwise!”

“
You didn’t yell at me for saving you in Haaraka!”

“
I was pinned to the ground, you were the only one movin’!  That made sense for you t’ fight!  But this time—“

“
Oh, just because you had the antlers up, that means you don’t need a little girl’s help, you can deal with it all on your own, you big manly stag.”

“
Yeah, I—“

“
Obviously you can’t!  And what was that water thing!  I nearly drowned!”

“
You shoulda stayed away!”

“
Pike you, I’m your protector!”

“
I’m the Guardian!”

“
You’re completely blind!  Or didn’t you know Dasira was working for Enkhaelen?  She nearly killed me!”

Cob choked on his next spate of curses.  “She what?”

“Tried.  To.  Kill.  Me,” said Fiora through her teeth, struggling up from the mud.  “With her evil dagger.  She’s an abomination and she said you knew about it.  And you didn’t tell me?  Aren’t we supposed to be comrades?  Aren’t we supposed to be working together, instead of the lot of us backing you up except when you can’t be bothered with us?  Look, the only reason the Ravager even came down to your level is because Lark shot him, otherwise you’d still be sucking up lightning bolts from on high.”

“
I—  I know,” Cob said lamely, “but that doesn’t mean you should run right up t’ where he’s been imprisoned.  You remember in Haaraka, the thorns had him, then he blasted out jus’ like that.  You shoulda known better than to—“

“
I was worried about you!”  She glared at him, then added coldly, “Apparently you weren’t worried about us, because you did your magic water thing and suddenly we were all piking drowning.”

Blanching, Cob sought out Lark and Arik—still lingering by the hedge maze entrance.  Even from this distance, they looked drenched.  A worm of guilt curled tight in his stomach and he looked down to his hands, half-buried in the mud.  Faint pale streaks showed on his dark skin.  Frostbite in the shape of fingers.

Mother
, he thought.

His heart clenched in his chest, and for a moment the Dark was there again, hollowing him out with its endless cold.  He hunched over, shaking, hands fisting in the ooze. 
Can’t be her down there in the Dark.  Has to be a delusion.  A trick.  It can’t have her.

But he knew better.  He had seen that same hollowness in her eyes.

He felt like retching but there was nothing to come up, felt like running but was still too weak to gain his feet.  As Fiora approached, her expression now concerned, he looked away, as if she might read the shame and fear in his eyes.  He did not want to be here, doing this, fighting the Ravager and the Light.  He wanted to be home in his mother’s arms.

He had thought her lost to him, but now he knew she was close.  Too close.

“’M sorry,” he mumbled, letting Fiora take his arm and help him up.  “Got confused.  We should get outta here.  Down to that town at least, but further if we can.  Enkhaelen’ll be back, probably with help.”

“
What about that sword?” said Fiora, nodding past him.

He looked to the silver blade still standing upright in the sod, slightly filmed with ice.  His first instinct was to replace it in the tomb with its owner, but as he opened his mouth to say so, he remembered Enkhaelen’s magic unraveling.

“Comes with us,” he said.  “We’re gonna need it.”

Fiora sheathed her own sword and stepped past him to pull it from the soil.  After a moment of inspection, she slung it across her shoulder and said, “I’ll carry it.  Metal isn’t good for you.  But don’t think we’re done with our discussion.”

He grimaced as she stalked by.  He wanted to stop her and brush away the flecks of glass, to extend the Guardian energy to make sure she was not harmed, but he restrained himself.  She had her own Trifold powers, and obviously disdained any help or orders from him.

Together indeed
, he thought darkly.

Slowly he managed to stumble after her, feeling like he had just risen from the dead.  Arik and Lark fell in with him, apprehensive, neither speaking.

They made it through the hedge maze after a minimum of confusion, and as they approached the black gates Cob saw figures pacing out there.  His heart lifted slightly; he had feared for Dasira and Ilshenrir, and after Fiora’s snappish remarks about Dasira trying to kill her, he had dared not ask more.

As they drew closer, though, his spine stiffened as he realized there were quite a lot of them.  His antlers crackled into existence on his brow, wiping away the fatigue.

Pushing past Fiora despite her protests, he flung the gates wide and strode out to confront the strangers.  They recoiled immediately, and he halted, surprised: the eight of them, both men and women, looked so much like the shaggy-haired half-feral folk he had seen in Enkhaelen’s nightmare that he almost thought he had stumbled back into it.  Their faces were different though, and as they withdrew into a wary gathering, he spotted Ilshenrir sitting against the hedge wall with a half-sphere of faded wards around himself and Dasira.  It hurt Cob to see the bodythief slumped like that, no matter what Fiora had said.

The wraith inclined his head marginally.  His face looked strange.  Scarred.

“Guardian,” said one of the rough men, his voice both hopeful and uneasy.  Cob's attention snapped to him, but he avoided the gaze, staring instead at Cob's chin.  The others did the same, their expressions deferential.

Cob took a step closer, watching as they jostled together restlessly.  They were obviously wolf-folk; a few had tails tucked between their legs despite their clothes, and they hunched peculiarly, knees bent and chins up as if making themselves smaller.  All were shorter and lighter of build than Arik, quill-less, in practical leather garb; some had weapons at their belts but none bore one in hand; nor did they wear shoes on their furry clawed feet.  Beyond them, Cob saw tuck-eared wolf-faces peeking up from the notch of the stairs.

"Uh, hoi," he said.

A quiver went through the crowd, a few in the back bumping shoulders for encouragement.  He recognized that, and realized they were not really cowering; they were nervous and excited and would probably bolt if he made an angry face.

With his mood, it was tempting.

He suppressed that and tilted his head instead, and as if recognizing his interest, the two in the front stopped hunching so much, their tails lifting.  He took a moment to glance back at Arik.  The big skinchanger—who had slipped into beastman form and now stood at the rear of their group with his ears laid back and tail stiff—gave him a nod.

Wonder if this is Haurah's influence
, he thought as he beckoned the wolf-folk forward.  They were small, both the man and the woman barely reaching his chin, which felt strange; he had always thought of predators as large and imposing.  Creatures to fear.

The mob of them crept forward cautiously until the frontrunners paused just out of arm's reach.  The man's tail lifted enough to swish behind him, while the woman looked up with large-eyed interest.  Under her thick hair, her ears were mobile and pointed, far more wolfish than human.

"Why're you here?" said Cob, keeping his voice low and even.

“
To see you, Guardian,” said the man.  He had a narrow face with a dark scruff that looked more like overrun sideburns than a beard, his eyes yellowish, his skin weathered from a life outdoors.  He took care not to show his teeth when he spoke.  “We felt your touch through Raun, our father, and when you came to our territory, we followed you.  No human or wraith has set foot here without bloodshed for many turns of the seasons, but for you and yours, we will make exceptions.”

Cob eyed the man, then glanced to Ilshenrir.  “They didn't attack you?”

“No,” said the wraith.  “I raised my ward when I saw them, but they have not tested it.”

“
You chased away the bad dreamer,” said the feral man.  “Brought the firebird back, if only briefly.  Will you accept our hospitality, Guardian?”

You’re the Ravager’s people
, he thought to say, but that was obvious.  Except that they were his people now too, through both Haurah and Arik, and if they knew Enkhaelen as the firebird, perhaps there was more they could tell him.

What kind of hospitality wolves might offer, he could not imagine.  But it could not be worse than waiting here for Enkhaelen to return.

“Fine,” he said.  “For a time.”

The feral man smiled a broad but close-mouthed smile, and suddenly the rest of the pack surged around Cob, milling and sniffing and staring as the man and woman tried to bump them into some semblance of behavior.  Cob tried to be aloof, guessing that this was how things went, but when they got too intimate he could not help but push them away.  Most went cheerfully, either being corralled by their alphas or swooping in to sniff from another angle, but one man fell right over with his legs spread and whined for mercy.

"Oh, up before you piss yourself," said a woman, and half-dragged the man to his feet to send him wobbling toward the stairs as all the wolf-shaped wolves boiled up to join in the sniffing.

“
Um, is this a good idea?” called Fiora.

As they surrounded him then flooded past to inspect his friends, Cob looked back and shrugged.  “Is anythin’?”

As the sun sank in the bleached sky, Captain Sarovy and his lancers rode in through the open gates of Bahlaer.  He felt relief as they passed into the shadows of the walls; as troubled as he was by his mission, he was glad to be discharging it, for the woman at his back troubled him further.

During their ride toward Bahlaer, she had spoken in his ear.  She was Ammala Cray, thirty-nine, a widow for several years.  Her children were the demanding Izelina, thirteen; the boy Aedin, ten; the shy Jesalle, eight; and two in graves behind the abandoned cottage to add to dead Paol at the Riftwatch towers, nineteen.  The old woman was Maegotha Cray, called Nana by the children, nearly seventy and Ammala’s mother-in-law.

Sarovy did not want to know these things.  Initially he had rebuked her for speaking, but she had not stopped, and though he would have liked to rein his horse in and gag her, he resisted.  There was no need to use force.  He did consider it again when Lieutenant Linciard flagged them to a stop so that he could splint the old woman’s wrist—apparently Sarovy had broken it while disarming her—but consigned himself to ignoring her.

Sometimes it seemed she was speaking to herself rather than to him: trying to weave her life into some kind of a narrative, to see it before her as she approached her fate.  See what it had been worth.  He respected that, and she was calm otherwise, unlike the children who spent half the ride in tears.  Surely she had the will to grab the utility knife from his belt and stab him, but she seemed too proud to try.

After she fell silent, the litany kept drifting in his head.  She was merely five years older than him, and for the first time in more than a decade he felt the emptiness of his exile.  A wife lost to estrangement, a family to dishonor—none of them deigning to respond to his letters, though he still sent them faithfully each month.  No children.  No one he could properly call friend.

They were the just consequences of his behavior, he knew, and he did not regret his service to the Light.  Nor did he expect the war to end in his lifetime.  There were vast empires of enemies still to fight, and he had been raised—bred—for military service.  It was his purpose.  What did civilians even do with their time?

Why would he ever want to step beyond the bounds of the army?

He tried hard to leave those thoughts outside the gate.  The streets of Bahlaer were quiet, the shadows long between the buildings, and the few carters and vendors he spotted averted their eyes from the Crimson troop.  Shutters snapped together in upstairs windows, and curtains drew tight over balcony archways.

It had not been this way last time.  He remembered a great bustle of citizenry in the streets, especially near the gates, but now the visible populace was thin and moved under cover as soon as they saw the riders.  He frowned, gaze flicking from window to window as his horse slowed to a trot on the cobbles.  His nerves expected crossbow fire, but as they passed through the streets, there were no shots.

Still, he twitched when something crackled in his ear.  He recognized it as the silver earhook reconnecting with its fellows a moment after his hand clenched on his sword’s hilt.

Ammala’s hand touched his, like a warning.

He glanced back, eyes narrowed, thinking this an ideal time for her to shank him: surrounded by her own hidden people, within the walls of their heretic city.  But she simply shook her head, dark eyes sober and unapologetic.  He glimpsed several lancers reach for their own swords and held up his hand to halt them.

Triggering the earhook with a thought, he said, “Shield-Lieutenant Gellart, are you there?”

‘
Yes sir.  Welcome back, sir,’
said the lieutenant, his voice crackly in the arcane distance.  ‘
We’re at the city garrison right now, unpacking the wagons and getting the injured checked.  The Field Marshal had us send the prisoners straight to the Palace—he has a whole pack of mages—so it’s just us now, sir.’

“
There are sufficient accommodations?”

‘
Seems like it’ll work well enough, sir.  Better than tents around Miirut.’

“
We’ll come straight in, then.  Tell the Field Marshal—“

‘
Uh, sorry to interrupt, sir, but the Field Marshal isn’t here.  He said you’re to go to him at the ‘Merry Tom’.  Some sort of tavern in the Shadowland.  Said you’d know it.  Already took the Specialist platoon there, minus Sergeant Presh and Specialist Weshker.’

“
Just the Specialists?” said Sarovy, frowning.

‘
Uh, and the two ‘special’ sergeants, sir.’

“
And my prisoners, the Crays?”

‘
He said to bring them with you, sir.’

That was strange, but Sarovy saw no reason to argue with it.  “Very well.  Make sure the stablemaster knows to expect us soon.”

‘Yessir.’

Releasing his concentration from the hook, Sarovy wheeled his horse about and motioned for the lancers to follow.  He had no desire to reenter the Shadowland, especially not with his recent forays against the smugglers, but orders were orders, and he remembered the way.

Ammala’s arms wrapped tighter around his waist as they crossed a bridge to the east side of the city, the river rafted with ice below.  The barge paths were empty, the warehouses ahead as unwelcoming as the homes and businesses behind them, and as they passed the mill-yards and started up the steep ridge that separated the Shadowland from the river district, he felt the tension rise in the rest of his troop.  They intersected the Ridge Road and turned north on it, the painted brick buildings to either side seeming to overhang them like threats.  No windows here, just wide alleys and turnabouts, loading yards, wagon shelters.  Dark places to hide.

When the crests of guilds and merchant houses disappeared, when the painted figures on the brick façades became black instead of blue and green and orange, he knew they were closing in.  The earhook hissed as it left the range of Gellart’s, then again as it drew in range of Houndmaster-Lieutenant Vrallek’s.

Sarovy did not cue it.  He had replayed the route in more than one nightmare and needed no guide, and in a short time the lancers emerged from a side-street to see the ill-omened tavern and the forces arrayed before it.

Few wore crimson, which worried him.  An easy score of them stood in the middle of the street, parade-stiff, their white platemail matte and ungleaming.  Red sashes crossed their chests but seemed more like adornment than affiliation, and as their heads turned toward him, he saw their helms were featureless.  No visor, no eye-slit, just matte white metal.

His breath caught in his throat, and it took him a mental effort to tap his heels to his horse’s flanks and draw closer.  He knew the armor well.  The White Flame: the Imperial City’s own enforcement squad, where the most fanatically loyal soldiers were assigned.  They were said to be arcanely augmented and perhaps even physically bonded to their armor, and were monstrous in battle.  To have so many here—and even more, he realized as he looked past the main cluster to see others positioned down the block in pairs, apparently guarding equal pairs of robed mages—

To have so many here in the west was unprecedented.

“Captain Sarovy!” boomed a voice from among the main mass of White Flame, and Sarovy spotted an unhelmed man at its center, silver-flecked black hair slicked back and thick beard bristling around a broad white grin.  Field Marshal Rackmar.  He was massively built, broad-shouldered and barrel-shaped, and wore ornate armor in thick plates with a blood-colored cloak unfurling down his back.  Not White Flame armor, but the flame insignia stood out plainly on his cloak-clasp.

Sarovy drew up in salute and halted his horse before the crowd.  Scattered around the White Flames, he spotted his own men—the Blaze Company specialists, out of formation like loiterers.  A quick scan showed Sarovy the Houndmaster-Lieutenant, the senvraka and lagalaina, and most of the ruengriin.  The scouts somehow evaded his eyes.

“Field Marshal, sir,” he said stiffly, holding the salute as the Field Marshal waded through the honor-guard to peer up at him.  His face was wide and weathered, eyes crinkled at the edges as if filled with good nature, but there was something hard within them, almost reptilian.

After a moment, he raised two knuckles to his own brow to return the salute.  “At ease, Captain,” he said, a wealth of amusement in his deep voice.  “Dismount and show me what you’ve brought.”

“Yes, Field Marshal,” said Sarovy, immediately sliding from the saddle.  Behind him, the others dismounted, and he assisted Ammala in her own awkward descent; without his readiness and firm stance, she would have plummeted into the dirt.

As he steadied her, she shot him a look that was neither thanks nor anger but some form of cold pity.  It puzzled him, and he took her firmly by the arm to lead her before the Field Marshal as his men brought the rest of the family around.

“Ladies,” the Field Marshal boomed, and the three Blaze Company lagalaina—Specialists Ilia, Sindel and Carver—scurried to attend him.  With them at his sides, the Field Marshal eyed the five prisoners up and down.  “Not much of use here,” he murmured to himself.

Sarovy frowned.  That had been his thought—that this family could have no value to the Empire—and though he hated to speak so bluntly so soon after meeting his new commander, he could not help but comment, “Yes, sir.  They are just civilians.”

The Field Marshal looked to him with brows raised in a mild expression that to Sarovy seemed calculated.  “They are the ones who sheltered our escapee though, yes?  KRD1184?  The one you failed to catch?”

“
Yes, sir.”

“
Well then, certainly of interest.  The Emperor is not pleased with your failure, but I’m willing to forgive it in light of the others—and there have been many.  I don’t know if you’ve heard.”

“
No, sir,” said Sarovy, puzzled.

“
Your former General, our illustrious Crown Prince, has been keeping secrets.  We found your reports sealed away in a trunk, purposefully forgotten.  Purposefully withheld from the larger Imperial community, so that when KRD1184 broke loose in Wyndon and started rampaging through Amandon, no one knew what he was or who his allies might be.  Your General sat on that knowledge, which is a shame, for your reports could have saved many lives.”

Sarovy said nothing, not sure what to think.  He was not proud of his mistakes, but a cover-up was unwarranted.  Why the General would do that, he could not begin to guess.

“We’ve found many interesting reports among his papers,” the Field Marshal continued slyly, “as well as in the withheld-correspondence piles.”

Again, Sarovy did not know what to say.  He was aware of the Army’s need to read any outgoing or incoming mail to be sure that no Imperial secrets were being spilled, but what the Field Marshal expected—or why he would mention that in such a tone—escaped him.

For a moment there was only silence, the Field Marshal’s bearded joviality matched against Sarovy’s blank incomprehension.  Then the Field Marshal’s smile withered, and he turned his gaze to Ammala, who stiffened beneath it.  Reaching out with a gauntleted hand, he gripped her by the chin and turned her face this way and that.  Though rigid, the woman did not resist.

“
So this is the one who sheltered the escapee?” he said.  “A brave soul.  Perhaps that will be good enough.  You see, captain, we have found that fielding a conventional force against the Dark entity is counterproductive.  Our common soldiers never get close to him, and our specialists are actively harmed by his presence.  Even our mages seem to have little effect on the power he wields.

“
However, he is not without weaknesses.  Nostalgia might be one; it permitted a specialist to get close enough to injure him, mark him, and so I have decided to gather up what playing pieces I can find to hold against him.  In addition to more traditional tactics.”

“
Hostages, sir?” said Sarovy, eyeing the family.  He did not know how long KRD1184 had hidden with them, but certainly he had not stayed to defend them.

“
Not exactly.  But a type of leverage, yes.”

“
Sir, can’t you simply set the White Flame on his trail?”

Field Marshal Rackmar arched a salt-and-pepper brow.  “I did say ‘traditional tactics’, captain.  Or do you have some vested interest in keeping these heretics from being made useful to the Empire and the Light?”

“Of course not, sir—“

“
I have decided to alter our glorious Crown Prince’s policies,” said the Field Marshal conversationally as he released Ammala and turned to stroll down the line of captives.  “He was too lenient on this wretched place and its heretical people.  Had I been in command, I would have seen these cities razed as I passed, their populace given the choice of the altar or the sword.  But as they have been conquered, I suppose I can not simply have them torched—no matter the example it would set to our enemies as to their fate for reviling the true Light.

“
Instead,” he said as he reached the end of the line and looked down at the little girl, a fatherly smile curling beneath his beard, “we will educate them.  Instill in them a proper faith.  Return the priests to the army and the streets, scour out their Dark temples and fill them with radiance, let them understand the truth of the Imperial Light.  The children in particular must be taught so that they know how foolish their ancestors have been.  So that they, the new generation, can be raised properly into the glory of our faith, our god and our emperor.