The Dark Throne, page 29
Vell leaned over the table again, spreading her fingertips over the map as though she wished to draw the ink through her skin, absorbing every detail of the coming battlefield into her body. Her golden eyes scanned the routes again. Arcana withdrew into the shadows, like a sea snake sinking back into its murky cavern.
“Arrisyn,” Vell said, “how long for these routes?”
The navigator dutifully considered the map. “A fortnight will take each vanguard to the foothills of the southern reaches of the Edhyre here.” He pointed to the mountain range that stretched from the Deadlands to the Far North in a curving arc. “But I must say that my estimation is for the ground forces. I am not well acquainted with the speeds of our flying steeds yet.”
“Ensure that is rectified.”
Merrick blinked but recovered. “Yes, my queen. I will discuss it with the Laedrek.”
Vell nodded, still studying the map. Finally she straightened and crossed her arms. “Three days, and you will ride out. Bring me the list of the warriors embarking this journey in the morning, and then I will meet with the wing and vanguard commanders tomorrow at dusk, and each night until departure.” She looked at me. “Lady Bearer, since you’ll be traveling with them as well, would you attend?”
“Happy to contribute,” I replied with a little smile. Vell’s queenly façade slipped and she grinned at me, teeth gleaming.
“Any other contributions?” she asked the tent at large. All she received in reply were a few smiles, so she nodded briskly. “Right then. Time to go see what our formidable camp cooks have produced for tonight.”
And with that, the war council was summarily dismissed. Merrick began rolling the maps on the table, trying to remain indifferent when Calliea stepped forward to help him. Farin hovered over their heads, offering advice on the methodology of storing maps in her high, bright voice. I suppressed another smile—the Glasidhe were experts of a sort in the storing and preservation of delicate objects, as their size dictated; I was equally sure that Merrick possessed some knowledge on the subject as well, but he accepted Farin’s advice seriously, only a faint smile betraying his good-natured amusement.
Over to the side of the tent, Gray spoke to Finnead, her eyes flashing angrily. Though I tried to catch the words of their conversation, all I heard was the tight, rapid rhythm of Gray’s words, contrasting sharply with Finnead’s low, measured responses. A light touch at my elbow drew my attention.
“I’ve heard tell eavesdropping isn’t polite,” said Luca, a glimmer of amusement in his ice-blue gaze. “But then again, I’m mostly a savage, so I know little about these things.”
I grinned despite myself, feeling my cheeks heat slightly. “You’re right. It’s not polite. But sometimes I forget myself.”
He shrugged a little. “It means you aren’t a slave to etiquette and all the rules of proper behavior. It’s not a bad thing.”
“But it is rude,” I agreed. “And slightly awkward, so thanks.”
“No thanks needed.” He gestured toward the entrance of the tent. “Join me for dinner?”
“Only if you brought your specially crafted utensils,” I replied with a grin.
“Of course. I am always prepared.”
“The mark of a true warrior.”
“We should practice your bladework after the meal, and then perhaps find you a bow.”
My fingers twitched in anticipation as I thought about holding a bow again, nocking an arrow, drawing the string back in one smooth long pull. I loved handling a sword, but there was a nameless sweet satisfaction in sending an arrow sailing through the air to pierce a target at a long distance. I imagined it was much like the satisfaction a sniper gained from their work. Liam’s voice rippled through my mind. Reaching out and touching a target hundreds of yards away, there’s nothing like it.
“That sounds like an excellent idea,” I said. “Except….um. I’ll meet you outside.”
“I’m in no rush,” said Luca easily.
My face heated further as I crossed the tent and pulled aside the curtain to Finnead’s sleeping quarters, hurriedly snatching up my plain blade from where I’d forgotten it, buckling the belt about my waist as I walked back toward the table. Luca grinned at me. I narrowed my eyes and he softened his grin into a smile.
“Tess, I saw the tail end of that whole mess with the smoke creature,” he said almost gently. “Finnead almost had to carry you to his quarters. You needed rest.”
“He didn’t carry me,” I muttered defensively as we emerged from the tent into the dusky evening light. I blinked. The day had slipped by me while I’d been sleeping. We walked toward the center of camp, past the smaller fire-rings toward the large, main fire pit that had been appropriated for the cooking of meals.
Luca paused and reached out, lightly holding my shoulders. His hands were warm through my shirt, and I had to look up to meet his earnest gaze. “I am not some stripling given to fits of jealousy and pettiness.” The ulfdrengr smiled reassuringly. “I have told you before, and I will tell you every time you need to hear it, I will always be your friend. If someday you decide you want more from me, I will gladly give you all that I have. But if that day never comes…” He shrugged slightly. “That is the way of life sometimes.” His eyes turned grave. “There was a time that I would have welcomed death. I thought the world had lost its wonder. I had seen so much death, done such terrible things…” He shook his head and smiled again. “No doubt you have had some version of this conversation with Finnead.”
I raised my eyebrows in surprise. “That’s…. disarmingly perceptive,” I finished honestly, at a loss for any other words.
Luca chuckled. “We are alike in many ways, your knight and me.”
“Well,” I said as we walked toward the enticing scent of roasting meat, “I’ll tell you one thing that’s different, you’re a much better sparring partner. Finnead tried to teach me something about handling a blade, back in the early days of my time in Faeortalam. I think the word he used was ‘hopeless.’” I grinned at Luca’s laugh. I realized I liked making him laugh. The Sword hummed contemplatively. Quiet, you, I thought good-naturedly at it, and its amusement rippled through my ribs as we drifted into the line behind a great steaming cauldron of stew.
“Your hand-crafted spoon, as demanded,” said Luca in mock seriousness, handing me the wooden spoon I’d used our first night in camp. With a grin, I took it, and we talked about different approaches to swordplay as we waited for our meal in the fading gray light of the Deadlands.
Chapter 20
After an evening meal of stew and a hard chunk of bread—apparently there were limits even to the High Queen’s ability to keep stores fresh—Luca and I made our way over to the open practice fields. At the edge of the camp proper, just before the fields, we passed what I recognized after a moment as an armorer’s forge, or as close an approximation as they could build with rough materials. Two Sidhe stoked the fire with intent focus, a blade resting on a black anvil a small distance away. Through the smoke and air-wavering heat, I glimpsed a lithe figure approach the anvil, and I heard him speak in a low voice to the two Sidhe manning the fire. I slowed to watch, and Luca matched my pace, smiling. There was a rack of weapons by the smith’s forge, some plainly waiting to be repaired but others whose owners no longer had need of them. I shivered a little as Luca examined the bows, selected two longbows and two quivers, slinging them over his shoulder.
I realized that one of the Sidhe stoking the fire was a woman, though she wore her flaxen hair shorter than some men. The other assistant handed the smith a pair of heavy gloves, and then the woman gripped the sword in a pair of tongs and slid it into the hottest embers of the fire. In what seemed to me like a strangely short amount of time, she withdrew the blade, now white-hot, and laid it on the anvil. The smith hefted a hammer and struck the blade in a shower of sparks. I blinked, took a few more steps to get a better look, and stopped.
Chael wielded the hammer expertly, his amethyst eye glittering as he hit the glowing metal with a series of precise blows, each impact ringing with the sweet symmetric sound of a bell. Sweat gleamed on his forehead, and he wore a strip of cloth tied like a bandanna to keep his silver hair well out of his eyes. His shirt clung to him and I saw that though Chael had been truly skeletal when we’d rescued him, he was now well-muscled—lithe and lean, though not as slender in build as some of the Sidhe. His shoulders, broad for his size, still spoke of his ulfdrengr blood.
“Out of the two of you, I’d have guessed you were the smith,” I said to Luca.
“I can forge a blade readily enough,” replied Luca with a grin, “but Chael, he’s truly got the touch.”
I smiled as I heard the pride in Luca’s voice.
“His weapons are works of beauty,” Luca continued. “Deadly as one could wish a weapon to be, but still made with art.”
“I’m guessing that Chael helped Conall at the Hall before we rode out,” I mused.
“Helped him? Probably taught him a thing or two.”
I nudged my elbow into Luca’s ribs. “Cockiness is not attractive.”
“That’s not true.” He grinned devilishly. “There’s a thin line between cockiness and arrogance, and I walk it deftly.”
“Deftly,” I repeated with a chuckle. We watched Chael for a moment more; the ulfdrengr didn’t notice us, he was so absorbed in the blade before him. I touched the hilt of my plain blade and wondered if Chael had helped to forge the fine blade that bore the names of our valiant dead.
Women like bright, shiny objects, but apparently for me that means those of the sharp and deadly variety, I thought with a wry smile. The Sword’s chuckle vibrated through my ribs.
“It took him a while to get back to making blades,” Luca said, quietly now, “after they took his eye with one of his own-made daggers.”
A horrible thought struck me. “Did he make the dagger that was bound to your hand?”
Luca’s eyes went distant. “No. He could not have crafted such a thing.”
Something like a growl escaped me. “They’ll pay for torturing him, and you.”
“Oh yes.” An animal light sparked in his eyes and his reply was more answering growl than words. His jaw tightened. “But the one who tortured Chael is already dead, though her body is still used by Arcana.”
I swallowed hard, my mind conjuring Chael’s beauty before the scars—how he must have shone among the children of the ulfdrengr. Had his hair always been silver-white, or was that from the torture as well? I firmly clamped down on my wandering thoughts. “Let’s go practice,” I said, voice slightly ragged.
Luca gave a last look at Chael, then turned and led me to the practice fields. Enterprising warriors had crafted makeshift archery targets by stuffing a few shirts with rags and mounting them on spear shafts. Warriors had marked the featureless land into rings, mostly just by carving lines into the dirt; other than the archers’ makeshift targets, there was really no other requirement for sword practice other than a blade, a willing partner and space. The Sword hummed softly in anticipation as we passed small groups of Sidhe: pairs sparring, a group of younger warriors listening intently to a teacher whom I recognized as one of the Firstscore, and some individuals running through drills on their own, all moving their blades with singular focus. A few archers sent arrows sailing through the air, shifting their position between three lines drawn farther and farther from the targets. Though dusk began to dim the gray light of the Deadlands, it was still bright enough for practice, and I noticed torches already prepared to light a few of the rings past dark.
We found an empty practice ring; to my gratification, few of the warriors paused in their drills or sparring as we walked past. I still caught surreptitious glances from a few of the younger Sidhe, but they quickly returned to their practice, especially after a few of them caught blows from their sparring partners as reward for their distraction. I slipped the strap of the Sword over my head and coiled the leather neatly, laying the hilt of the Sword on the bundled strap. The emerald in the pommel winked at me, as though the Sword would be observing our practice through its one green eye. Luca deposited the longbows and quivers at a respectful distance from the Sword. Then he drew his blade, smiling at the sound.
“Give me a few minutes to warm up,” I said, drawing my blade from its sheath as well. The gray light shone on its silver length, highlighting the names engraved in flowing script near the hilt. I ran my finger lightly over the names; the forge-magic warmed to my touch, like a cat purring. Though the names looked etched into the surface of the sword, the blade remained silky smooth, still as unmarred as the day it had been forged. I thought in appreciation yet again of Conall’s skill, and his generosity in making me such a fine blade imbued with sorcery. The runes laid into my plain blade, though, were just runes, crafted to respond to a very specific set of instructions. No sentient power lurked in this sword.
My right hand tingled as I ran through some drills, delighting again in the feel of a well-balanced blade in my grip. After a few drills, I tossed my sword into my left hand and completed a set of drills on the other side. The muscles in my legs burned slightly and I felt the prickle of sweat beginning to bead on my forehead; I touched my toes a few times, blade still in hand, and then turned back to Luca. His sword, I’d noticed during our previous session, was different, something between a broadsword and the slimmer blade that I favored and which most of the Seelie carried. It made sense, that a Northman would want a blade commensurate to his size. I thought of Kavoryk and his huge battle-axe. I pushed down a sharp flash of sorrow and set my footing, facing Luca. He raised his eyebrows in silent question, I nodded and quick as thought our blades clashed.
I learned the hard way that Luca moved as fast as a wolf springing for the kill. I’d grown used to sparring against faster, stronger opponents—that meant nearly everyone, when I’d first started learning the art of swordplay. But as I matched blades with Luca, I was reminded yet again that I was no longer the mortal girl carried through a lesser gate by the Vaelanbrigh of the Unseelie Court. My sword flashed and my feet danced, my body responding and moving without conscious thought. Luca certainly still held an advantage of strength, but I found in slight surprise that I could match his speed, and with effort even outstrip him; so I forced him to follow me about the practice ring, striking fast and dancing away, feeling like a boxer taunting a larger opponent.
We were almost equally matched—my light-footed speed kept Luca from using his considerable strength. As I blocked an arcing sweep of his blade and leapt away, I realized it would be a contest of endurance. Sweat slid down my back, but I noted with satisfaction that Luca’s shirt clung to his muscled torso as well. His ice-blue eyes glittered as I sidestepped about the perimeter of the ring, using the short respite to slow my gasps of exertion into long, measured breaths. I focused on the center of his chest, waiting for it to telegraph his next movement; even so, I didn’t have the time to dance away from a vicious two-handed downward sweep. A grunt of effort escaped my lips as I blocked Luca’s blade, the impact jarring my hand and vibrating through my bones; I tightened my entire body as Luca bore down, but he still drove me down to one knee. If I stayed in this position, I’d need to yield, so I put every iota of strength into a violent push, gaining me a small respite from the grinding downward force. I used the moment to twist my blade out of the lock and roll sharply to the left, using the fist that held my sword to push myself up from the ground as I tried to put some distance between Luca and me. My right hand throbbed from the aftershock of blocking such a strong sweep, so I tossed my blade into my left hand, shifting my stance. Luca grinned and followed suit as he advanced on me, now holding his blade in his left hand as well.
He attacked, I blocked and danced away; I slipped close to deliver a whirlwind of strikes, and he defended without strain. We both breathed heavily, but we pressed on, unwilling to admit weakness. My blade pierced his guard once but he knocked it away fearlessly with his gauntleted forearm. He tried to catch me again in a body-to-body lock, but I took care to maintain my distance except when delivering my own blows. Then something in Luca’s stance shifted, warning me that he was about to execute an unexpected movement. I wasn’t fast enough to avoid his complex sweep that caught my blade at the hilt. I felt the leverage, knew that he was about to twist his blade and pry mine from my hand; and something within me refused defeat. In that long moment, I shifted my weight, and as Luca wrenched my blade from my hand, I unleashed a kick at his side. My shin connected solidly with his ribs as my blade sailed through the air, landing in the dirt at the edge of the practice ring. A strange beast within me reared up as Luca took a step to the side, looking more surprised than hurt at the impact of my kick. I let out a little snarl as I let my momentum carry me, following the kick to his side with a front kick snapped out from my other leg, hitting Luca solidly in the chest and pushing him backward; but his huge hand closed around my ankle, wrenching my foot upward and sweeping me from my feet. I broke the impact with my arms, slapping the ground as I landed, but the fall still stole the breath from me. I tried to roll toward my sword, but Luca pinned me down and tossed his blade aside.
I growled and struck at him with an elbow, but he deflected my strike with his forearm and then caught first that wrist, then the other in one large hand. I bucked wildly, trying to use the strength of my legs to throw him off balance, but he merely grinned down at me. I bared my teeth defiantly; he chuckled, and then suddenly the rush of wild fight within me dimmed, and I stopped struggling. As I stilled, I realized the sensuality of our position: Luca straddling my hips, one hand pinning my wrists above my head, his weight shifted forward to still my struggles. But though a different kind of heat began to run through my body, I caught my breath enough to say formally, “I yield.”
Luca released my wrists and sat back, still straddling me in full mount. I’d had some instruction in ground fighting at school but hadn’t gone in-depth with any one discipline. Now I wished I’d earned a black belt, just to wipe that trace of satisfaction from Luca’s handsome face. But it was only a trace, only perhaps the innate feeling of victory, with no malice or triumph behind it.
