Fire of the Forebears, page 48
Shadows—strange, shifting masses that grew and shrank like flashes of darkness—drifted in the forest. It was as if small clouds were passing overhead, intermittently blotting out the brightness of the sun, but the sky remained blue as ever. Kura suppressed a shudder. This wasn’t right.
A man charged from the forest, among the saja. He wore a soldier’s uniform, except that across his polished chestplate he’d painted garish symbols in something red enough to be blood. He brandished a sword, and Erryl broke from the line to meet him.
Kura struck down the saja at her feet, then joined Erryl in the charge. The Fidelis whipped his hands in front of him, catching the wind in the small clearing between the boulders and the forest in a whirling gust. The soldier leapt aside, stumbling as the cyclone knocked him off balance, but he threw an open hand forward then clenched his fist shut.
Kura screamed. Erryl’s body just seemed to… implode. His chest folded in on itself, wrinkling flat like a bit of meat left to dry in the sun. The man toppled over, blood oozing from his mouth as his eyes bulged in a blank look of surprise.
Another Fidelis charged, pulling a dirty root from the ground and impaling the soldier on it before one of the other rebel fighters sliced off the man’s head. Kura swallowed, blinking hard, as she forced herself back into the moment. Her hands shook—not from exertion this time—as she ran, but Aethan and the other woman were already a few steps ahead of her. Sheer panic gnawed at the hardened confidence that had held her together so far. But she couldn’t give in to that. Not yet.
A second man—a second vojak—emerged from the forest, following one of the saja. He carried no weapon. He needed no weapon. Panicking, Kura ducked behind her shield and charged at him.
She juked to the side, then leapt over a diving saja to swing at his neck. He jumped back, bringing his arms into guard in front of him as every tiny vein in his hands began to radiate darkness. The air around Kura tensed, as though it could weigh her down, but with a shout she severed the man’s outstretched hand from his arm.
The man yelled, and the air burst into flames. Kura turned away, ducking behind her shield as the wave of fire passed over her and disappeared. Pungent smoke rose from her singed shield and tunic but she lunged, plunging her sword into the man’s chest.
His mouth dropped open, and his eyes went wide. The irises were a deep brown, but where his eyes should have been white they were black—blacker than black, as black as a cloud-filled sky on a night with no moons. He began to scream. The man’s mouth was open, but the scream emanated from somewhere deeper, somewhere within his chest.
Kura leapt back, yanking her sword from the man’s body, her knees trembling. He’s dying, isn’t he? That, of course, was what she wanted, but she hadn’t expected this. The pitch of the man’s scream rose as thick, black-red blood oozed from the mark in his chest. And then the sound cut out entirely, and he crumpled into a heap at her feet.
This was not the man she’d killed. This body was a time-withered corpse held together by garish armor.
Rock crackled against soil. Kura threw up her shield to block a large stone that hurtled from the forest. The impact shoved her arm against her body, knocking her to the ground. She struggled back to her feet, wincing as she moved her arm—her shield had crumpled into three pieces, one of which dangled off her arm by the strap.
Another vojak, bright emblems emblazoned on his chestplate, shouted something, and Kura dove out of his path, still shaking the remains of her shield off her arm, as a second stone crashed into the ground where she had been standing.
She lunged at him, slashing wildly. With her shield gone, the new habits Triston had tried to teach her melded with the old she was supposed to forget, and in the end she found herself moving with no sensible direction or style, and barely kept from tripping over her own feet.
The vojak pulled back, eyes wide as he stared at her blade. “It can’t—”
Kura plunged her blade into his guts. The man began to scream, but—clenching her eyes shut—she removed her sword and turned her back to the spectacle. She couldn’t see it again.
Bodies of her fellow fighters lay in broken heaps all along the clearing between the trees and the boulders. Sorrow and nausea mixed in her throat, but there were still voices—figures fought back the saja among the flashes of darkness a stone’s throw away from her in every direction. They hadn’t lost; the enemy had pulled away from her. And only her.
A lone soldier seated on a white gelding emerged from behind the trees. He wore the most handsome set of silver armor Kura had ever seen, and a flowing grey cape settled around his shoulders like fog might around a snowy mountain peak at sunrise. She thought he was the king, until she really noticed his face and realized she knew him. It was the grey-eyed man.
Shit.
He had something in his hands, a staff something like Aethan’s, but on both ends there was fixed a blade—the first straight, the second split and curved, like a cupped hand. A word echoed back to her from somewhere deep in dreams or memory: the atgár. The man himself, however, appeared a bit disheveled. His right shoulder was stained from a bandaged but bloody gash on his ear, and his horse wheezed like they’d just finished a gallop.
The saja who’d pulled away from her in fear gathered at the grey-eyed man’s feet. They strode forward with him, their heads held high with renewed purpose. The rebel company gave shouts of dismay and scattered, breaking formation as they ran for cover among the rocks. Kura turned to follow them, but caught a glimpse of her own reflection, tinted red on Ìsendorál’s rusty, blood-soaked blade.
No. It echoed in her mind like a command. The fonfyr can’t run.
Drawing in a shuddering breath, she jogged after them, trying to peer over the massive boulders and through the lingering dust. They kept going—they were running for the hill and they weren’t looking back. She skidded to a stop, then put her fingers under her tongue to produce a sharp whistle. More than a few faces turned to look at her, and she raised her sword.
“We hold them at the rocks!”
“Come on!” A hand caught hold of her arm, and Kura spun around to find Aethan dragging her farther in among the boulders.
She almost tried to plant her feet in the dirt, to refuse to follow him, but shouts carried between the other rebel fighters. Most of them—at least those she could see—weren’t running any longer. They ducked for cover, brandishing weapons, and it seemed Aethan was only trying to do the same. Relieved, she stumbled after him into the cool shadows of the nearby boulder, stealing a glance over her shoulder.
The grey-eyed man still advanced, saja flanking him on each side. He was too calm as he surveyed the battlefield; his grey eyes scanned bodies of rebels and saja alike, and he didn’t so much as blink. How a man found such ease among the dead, she didn’t want to know. His beasts charged in among the boulders to engage with the re-forming rebel line, but he continued his leisurely stroll. He was searching for something.
Saja—short, doglike things with rounded little ears—circled around their boulder from both sides. Aethan struck at the nearest snarling face with his staff, but they crept forward, nipping at their ankles. Kura jumped up onto the boulder, boots finding purchase enough for her to climb the sheer slope, and Aethan followed her, whacking aside any saja that tried to do the same.
“Back!” Kura shouted, slashing the nearest across the face. It wasn’t the most creative thing to say, but the beasts listened, whimpering as they bared their fangs at the blade.
A cry carried from beyond them, and a rabble of rebel fighters charged the pack from behind. The saja snarled and split into two masses, attempting to fight on both fronts, which gave her and Aethan the chance to beat them away from their boulder and reclaim their hiding space.
Kura slid to the ground, falling into a fighting stance with the stone at her back and Aethan at her side. He took a step closer to her, holding his weapon in guard, as the saja warily eyed her sword. Her heart pounded so loud in her ears it was a wonder she could hear anything else, but they had a chance like this—a slim chance, if there were still more rebel fighters willing to aid them.
The saja retreated. Kura watched them, shocked, until they circled around a certain white gelding to regroup. The grey-eyed man sat in his saddle, watching her through narrowed eyes—it seemed he’d found what he was looking for. He snapped his fingers then pointed towards the heart of the valley. The saja bounded off in that direction, screams echoing after them.
The grey-eyed man dismounted slowly, atgár slung casually over his shoulder. Kura thought about running, but there was nowhere to go, so she tightened her grip on her sword.
“He’s the leader,” she said softly.
Aethan grunted, swordstaff gripped in white-knuckled fists. “I figured that.”
The grey-eyed man strolled towards them, gaze weighing her. She and Aethan shared a glance—his wide eyes said he didn’t know how to handle this any more than she did—and they lunged forward together, weapons raised.
The grey-eyed man knocked her strike aside easily—she wasn’t even in range of touching him—but Aethan pressed onwards, his single-bladed swordstaff glancing off the grey-eyed man’s weapon, and the two began some sort of deadly, balanced dance.
The air hummed with the spinning of staffs, the sound interrupted only by the repetitive thwack of wood against wood as the grey-eyed man forced Aethan toward the boulder. Kura hesitated, spinning the hilt of her sword in her grip.
Finally, she found an opening.
She lunged to thrust her sword into the grey-eyed man’s exposed side. The blade caught against his shoulder guard and he leapt back, parrying her strike before it became lethal. Then, with two impossibly swift motions, he sank one end of his weapon into Aethan’s gut and then sent the other end upside Kura’s head.
There was a flash of white and a moment of darkness, then she found herself on the ground, ears ringing. A voice screamed in her mind for her to get back to her feet, to rejoin the fight, and her fingertips brushed against Ìsendorál’s hilt on the ground beside her.
A shadow passed over her face. The grey-eyed man stood over her. Kura grasped her sword and thrust it at his guts, but he drove his blade through her arm. She screamed, pain surging through her, then lashed out with a kick.
She missed.
The grey-eyed man knelt down, driving his knee into her stomach, then plucked the talisman necklace from her neck. She struggled beneath his weight, air catching in her throat as his sharp knee drove the breath from her, but he didn’t even look her in the eye.
The grey-eyed man rose slowly, crushing the pouch in his hand with a curious frown, and Kura gasped for air as soon as his weight left her stomach. But his staff’s blade was still in her arm, pinning her to the ground.
A sound like rain pattered against the grey-eyed man’s plate armor. He gave a frustrated cry and stumbled back, yanking his blade from Kura’s arm. She bit down on a scream as the blade caught against her bones—but an instant later she was free, struggling to her knees as she cradled her bleeding arm against her chest.
Tendrils of water flashed over her head. Aethan was on his feet, his swordstaff gripped in trembling hands, and he pressed forward, a thin sheet of water swirling around his arms and his weapon. The grey-eyed man scowled then strode toward Aethan, his staff whirring as he spun it before him.
Kura grabbed her sword with her good hand then forced herself backward, scooting across the grass. Aethan walked past her, meeting the grey-eyed man’s jabs stroke-for-stroke. Water lashed through the air, striking the man wherever his blocks left him exposed. He parried most of Aethan’s strikes, but not all—and soon points of bright red blood marked his silver tunic. But Aethan’s stomach was redder still, and the stain widened as each successive swing of his swordstaff grew weaker.
Kura gritted her teeth, braced against the boulder behind her with her good arm, then hauled herself to her feet. She adjusted her grip on the sword—she’d fought left-handed before, enough to be good enough. But then she froze.
There was a second outline following the grey-eyed man’s. Another person made each of his movements with him. She blinked hard, wondering if the battle had broken her mind, but she only saw it more clearly. It was Vahleda, her hands gripping that weapon, moving as it moved.
A low chant issued from the forest. It was an eerie sound—rhythmic, almost melodic—a harsh cacophony of voices punctuated by the snap of metal on stone as arrows flew from the trees.
The grey-eyed man muttered a curse, then took a step back as he sent a few final, hasty blocks in Aethan’s direction. A second barrage of arrows rained in from the forest, joined this time by a thundering of hooves. Centaurs, dozens of them—each adorned in quilted gambesons and carrying bows and pikes and longswords—charged into the valley with such an air of confidence that Kura had to cheer. And she didn’t cheer alone.
The remaining saja pulled back to the grey-eyed man’s flanks, and they slipped away among the boulders as Kura ran to Aethan’s side. He collapsed to his knees; the water hanging in the air fell around them with a muffled splash.
Kura slipped her shoulder under Aethan’s arm as the thundering of hooves came ever closer. He smothered a wince as she pulled him to his feet, and he kept his hand pressed against the gash in his stomach. Fear caught in her chest. The blood had already soaked through his shirt.
There came a sharp whinny, and Kura turned around—N’hadia galloped to a stop at her side, followed by her father, Piotr.
“Trofast’s called the retreat, we were supposed to be part of the battle here but we were ambushed by soldiers—” N’hadia’s eyes widened. “Kura! You’re—”
Kura sheathed her sword. “Help him.”
Aethan grunted and muttered some sort of disagreement under his breath, but N’hadia had already grabbed him under his arms, as if he were a child, and set him down on Piotr’s back. She offered Kura her hand. “We’re here to get you out.”
Gratefully, Kura grasped the centaur girl’s arm. N’hadia swung her up onto her back, then galloped through the boulders.
Kura took in a breath with each of N’hadia’s thundering footfalls. Are we winning? It didn’t feel like it, but they had killed so many saja. She cringed as Aethan yelped and held his side, pain contorting his face as he struggled to stay on the centaur’s back.
N’hadia whinnied, her hooves sliding on the grass as she slowed to join the rest of the centaurs on the other side of the valley. The company charged uphill, most of them carrying riders or nursing some sort of injury. There were hundreds—surely there were hundreds? She started to count, then stopped herself. Maybe it would be better for her—for all of them—if she didn’t know.
Shouts carried from the rear. Soldiers kept the pursuit, shooting at the centaur herd with crossbows.
“Duck!” N’hadia shouted, and Kura leaned to the side as the centaur girl swung around, bow in hand, and loosed a few quick shots behind them without changing pace or direction.
Trofast charged past at a gallop. “Keep going!”
N’hadia let out a frustrated snort, but she swung around and picked up her speed. In little time Rih Hill loomed before them, the sunlight shining gold on the tree-covered slope. Trofast veered right, cutting down toward the river, and the rest of the company followed him.
Shouts rang out from the rear—the soldiers were gaining on them, but the centaurs charged into the river. Cold water kicked up by N’hadia splashed against Kura’s legs, and the slosh of hooves in the river roared like a waterfall. The soldiers maintained their pace, and an occasional arrow smacked against the rocky river cliff sides.
“Go!” Trofast took a few jogging steps past the open tunnel entrance, then turned around, snatching a few arrows from his belt quiver. The lead centaur ducked into the tunnel, and the company pressed together to charge into Nansûr.
Trofast loosed arrows, dropping each nearest soldier with a single shot to the right eye. His motions were fluid and calculated—as natural as a blink or a breath—and Kura watched in awe. He didn’t miss once, nor did she expect anything less. N’hadia gave a frustrated snort, pulling up her own bow as she began to veer toward Trofast.
“N’hadia!” Piotr scolded, and the centaur girl reluctantly fell back into line.
They passed through the tunnel opening; the air shifted from warm sunlight to cool darkness. The echo of voices and hoofbeats was deafening, but N’hadia charged into the stable area at a near canter and came to a jarring halt along the far wall. The space was already filled with people, nostkynna, and centaurs, and more poured in from the outside.
Kura drew in a shaky breath. Faron. She turned, frantically scanning the surrounding faces, hoping against hope to find him easily. Every eye she caught was a stranger’s.
Trofast’s shout carried from the end of the tunnel, although Kura didn’t understand what he said, and then came a shuddering boom. The light within disappeared and Trofast charged out of the darkness, dust billowing at his heels.
The entrance had been sealed. Permanently.
“Regroup!” Trofast shouted as he galloped past. Mud and blood splattered his blue-roan coat, but he wasn’t even winded. “Regroup!”
“Why are we retreating?” Kura whispered. She wasn’t sure she should be told, but she had to ask.
N’hadia swished her tail, stomping her rear hoof. “They’re trying to split us up into small factions they can pick off one by one. This might give up Nansûr, but we need to regroup—we need somewhere we can take a stand together!”
So, this was their last-ditch effort. Somehow the girl made that sound like an exciting challenge.
Kura slid down from her back, wishing she could find even a modicum of that enthusiasm, but at this point all she felt was numb. Aethan gave a grunt as he struggled to climb off Piotr’s back, and Kura rushed to catch him before he toppled to the floor. His face looked pale, even in the dim torchlight, and a large red splotch now stained the front of his tunic and trousers.
