Fire of the Forebears, page 49
“I’ll find a healer,” N’hadia said quickly, and before Kura could respond, the centaur girl had taken off into the crowd.
Carefully, Kura helped Aethan to the wall and lowered him down beside it. He grimaced at the effort, clamping his jaw shut to keep from vocalizing the pain. Is this my fault? Tears stung her eyes. He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me. If he hadn’t believed she was something she wasn’t.
Aethan looked up, catching her gaze. “Hey.” He gave a valiant attempt at a smile. “This isn’t over yet.”
Chapter fifty-two
Pretense
“J ust a bit farther, sir. Up this way I think,” Garan said, for the third time.
Nodding, Triston tried not to scowl. The captain meant well, of course, but his little remaining patience was wearing thin. Over the course of this mostly uphill trek, the cool of the morning had given way to the increasing warmth of the midday sun—plenty of time for battle to have broken and turned, all before he even got there.
He winced as he rubbed absently at his injured shoulder. Idris had done what she could, which was far better than nothing, but in the end Garan had bandaged the wound and they’d headed on their way.
Figures moved among the trees ahead, and both Triston and Garan stopped. It was four men, each dressed in polished chestplates and short red cloaks. They shouted to one another, and the nearest pointed in Triston and Garan’s direction. They could be anything from friends to allies to abject enemies, and he didn’t have the luxury right now of asking.
“Disarm them,” he said to Garan, before drawing his sword and charging.
The nearest man stumbled back, drawing his weapon, but with one quick sweep Triston disarmed him and moved on to the next man. The two of them parried one another for a few strokes, but in a matter of three more Triston had disarmed him, too, and lunged for the next man.
“Wait!”
Triston froze, then stared at the man’s face in surprise. “Dylen?”
“It can’t be…” Dylen’s eyes grew wide, and he stepped back, pointing his blade at Triston’s chest. The two disarmed men scrambled back behind their captain, staring with similar shock. “You, you…”
“It was a lie, all of it,” Garan said, stepping up to Triston’s side. “Seren—”
Dylen waved Garan aside but didn’t break from Triston’s gaze. “What’s your mother’s name?”
“Lyara. But anyone would know that.”
“Right.” Dylen glanced down at his feet, scratching his chin. “What’s your horse’s name?”
Triston smirked. “Ash. And you made fun of me for not choosing something more original.”
“Triston!” A wide smile spread across Dylen’s face, but it didn’t last long. He smacked Triston on the arm with the flat of his sword. “How do I know you’re not, I don’t know, a ghost or something? I saw the body myself, the seal ring…”
Triston sighed and knocked the sword away. “Dylen, I need to find my father. Whose camp is nearby?”
“My father’s, Therburn’s, Lady Rigan’s…” Dylen straightened. “My father left me in charge, actually. Of the reinforcements.” He looked Triston over, then laughed. “Gods, what are you wearing?” He squinted at the red stain on Triston’s shoulder. “Wait, have you been stabbed?”
Triston brushed past him. “Come on, where’s the camp?”
“This way.” Dylen took the lead, his strides long and face serious. Those two other soldiers fished their swords out of the pine needles and fell into line behind Garan.
A loud horn blasted somewhere deep within in the forest.
“Shit,” Dylen muttered. “Seren’s calling for reinforcements.”
Triston caught him by the arm. “Don’t answer him. He just tried to kill me.”
“What?”
Garan struck off on his own. “The horses should be back here, sir.”
“Yeah.” Dylen picked up his pace. “Come on.”
After a quick jog, the trees lessened enough for Triston to spot the thin plumes of campfire smoke rising from the clearing. The company had chosen a defensible position for the camp, a small field nestled in among a ring of large boulders. But the smoke… no soldier would be careless enough to give away the position of his camp like that unless he’d already left it.
“Over here.” Dylen motioned toward one of the nearest boulders, beside which dozens of footprints had worn a muddy path. Triston followed, Garan and the other two soldiers falling into single file behind him.
The place was nearly deserted; just a mass of short white tents remained, lined up among the few smoldering embers of campfires. A temporary corral hedged the far side, with some rope strung between a few stones and some scraggly pine trees. Most of the horses were already gone, except for several who belonged to the few lingering soldiers.
“Hey!” Dylen ran up to the edge of the corral. One soldier turned back, halfway in the saddle, standing in one of the stirrups. “I need those horses. Um, General Lavern’s orders.”
Confused but obedient, the soldier dismounted, and he and the other two men handed their horses’ reins to Triston, Dylen, and Garan. The man eyed Triston rather strangely, then gasped as Triston swung himself up into the saddle.
“Triston, sir?”
Triston drove his heels into the charger’s side, and the animal took off like an arrow from a bow. He pressed the horse between his knees, grinning at the burst of speed. This was how an animal was supposed to run. He nudged the reins to direct his mount through camp, scanning the tree line in the distance as he followed the departed company’s prints.
“This way!” Dylen’s voice rang out over the hoofbeats, and he steered his bay stallion to the left. Beyond him, between two large boulders, the forest thinned; among the sparse branches Triston caught glimpses of the main troop.
He yanked the reins to the side, his horse’s hooves sliding on the grass, but they held the turn and were soon charging neck and neck beside Dylen. Sunlight flashed off the soldiers’ silver armor and Triston used that glimmer as a beacon. He smacked the horse’s shoulders with the ends of the reins. The stallion shook his mane, ears pressed flat against his neck, but responded with a second burst of speed anyway, thundering past Dylen and leaving Garan far behind.
The soldier line loomed before him, creeping ever closer. Triston muttered a curse under his breath and eased back on the reins. He was charging into a battle between royal soldiers and a rebel army—dressed as a rebel. His horse continued forward at a loping trot as Triston debated his options. He was going to have to risk it.
He drew his sword, then dug in his heels.
A short horn blasted from the front of the company, and the soldiers scattered in all directions, responding to whatever was happening at the front lines, where he couldn’t see. If the captain had already called a formation break that wasn’t a good sign, but Triston set his jaw and directed his horse to the center of the fray. The nearest rider came at him with a shout, brandishing a spear. Triston deflected the strike and charged past him without breaking stride.
Calls echoed from among the men behind him, warning the next as he galloped past. He couldn’t help that. He juked around the trees, keeping his body low against the horse’s neck. With any luck, he wouldn’t wind up with an arrow in the back.
Breaking through the scattered soldiers’ formation, he stumbled into a narrow field where the air was thick with the heat of battle. Huge, muscular centaurs—dressed in quilted gambesons, wielding swords and pikes three times larger than any regular man of their stature could—formed the opposing line. Their formation was crude and disorganized, but the piles of dead and dying men and horses testified to their proficiency. Triston yanked back on the reins, muttering a string of curses as he fought to keep his horse secluded among the trees.
He was caught between two armies, and at the moment he didn’t rightly belong to either of them.
“Triston!” Dylen’s voice managed to carry over the sound of everything else. Triston turned back and found his friend standing in his saddle, approaching with at least six other soldiers in tow.
“Get them out of here!” Triston shouted, waving back toward the forest. “They’re going to get slaughtered! Regroup back at camp.”
“What about you?”
Triston gathered the reins tighter in his grip as his horse fidgeted beneath him. “I’ll…” He didn’t have a good answer. “I’ll meet you.” He nudged his horse forward, then held on as best he could as the charger lurched down the small embankment and took off through the narrow path between the evergreens.
A horse whinnied behind him, and Triston turned back to find a centaur tagging at his heels. He was running out of curses, but he sputtered some anyway and drove his horse forward.
The centaur juked beside him, then swung a massive broadsword at his head. Triston blocked the strike, yanking his horse around to better face him for the next one. The centaur raised his blade again, then hesitated.
It was Konik, Trofast’s brother, from the council. His eyes narrowed, but he lowered his sword. “What are you doing here, little one?”
“My father!” Triston shouted over the battle. “I find him, I end this war!”
The centaur grunted, studying him. Finally, he lifted a burly arm and pointed to Triston’s left.
Triston nodded in thanks and took off.
He turned his horse downhill, and the animal gained speed with each thundering footfall. The fighting diminished, quiet in sections where the bodies of men and centaurs—mostly men—littered the ground, half-buried in twigs and pine needles. Triston had seen the dead similarly mangled dozens of times before, but this time it haunted him. This time he might have been able to prevent all of it.
Shouts ahead drew his attention. While there may have been men’s among them, man was not the source. They were animalistic cries, deep and loud and rumbling, and Triston easily recalled the first time he’d heard them. Saja.
He drove the horse harder, whether the animal had any more speed to give or not.
A monster snarled somewhere below and his mount brayed, jerking away as it reared up on its hind legs. Triston held himself in the saddle with his knees and pulled the horse’s reins to the side to get the animal turning in a circle. Reluctantly, the horse listened, but continued to wheeze nervously as the creature growled again.
It was definitely a saja—some twisted, grey creature that looked something like a wolf—and it lunged, nipping at the horse’s back legs. He wouldn’t be able to both keep his seat and reach the saja with his sword, not with his mount this agitated. Triston let out a frustrated sigh, then drove the horse onwards. If the two of them couldn’t fight together, they could at least run together.
The charger left the saja behind in a matter of seconds. Triston juked the horse right, cutting uphill and behind a dense grove of trees. And stumbled into the heart of the battle.
Centaurs lined the right side, half of them charging at the advancing saja with pikes as the rest shot them down from a distance with arrows. Triston pulled back on the reins and paused a moment to find his bearings. There were saja here, yes, but very few—and each time one fell, a soldier replaced it. So, that would have to be Seren or Tanith’s company. That at least made them a clear enemy.
Triston nudged his charger on, but the horse hesitated, snorting—one of the saja carcasses along the soldier’s line had spooked it. He forced it to keep its pace and allowed it to veer off to the side.
“Hey!” One rider broke from the soldiers’ line and charged after him.
I don’t have time for this!
Triston smacked the horse’s shoulders with the reins—he had seen the thing’s speed before, he could rely on that. The charger darted forward, leaping over a fallen log. They sailed through the air, then landed with an awkward lurch on the uneven ground. The force threw him forward in the saddle, but he held on.
The soldier shouted again, then something sharp struck Triston’s arm. The blow stung, but miraculously the rusty chain mail he’d received in Nansûr took the brunt of it. He spun his horse to the side and brought up his sword to meet the soldier’s second strike. He couldn’t be sure whether this rider recognized him, but after a few parries he caught the soldier’s gloved hand and flicked his weapon from his grip by the crossbar.
Triston yanked his horse to the side, goading it toward the increasing density of soldiers. They neared a second clearing, this one wider and full of large boulders, but he needed to find the center of the battle. His father always fought somewhere toward the center. Cries and the crash of metal rang in the basin at his side, but he veered away, charging against the flow of soldiers.
There—a dense group of fighters he could just see through the trees. A ring of saja packed them in a circle; they were the only soldiers clearly working against the monsters instead of with them. Triston dug in his heels, and the horse met his request with the expected burst of speed until it caught sight of the saja. The animal snorted, turning off course as it tried to come to a galloping stop.
Triston leapt from the saddle, landed on his hands and knees on the forest floor, then picked himself up and charged toward the battle on foot.
The first saja he felled from behind, along with the second, but he caught a glimpse of the third’s shining yellow eyes before he lopped off its head. Adrenaline pounded through his veins. His silver blade was an extension of himself, and he fought with a calculated ferocity that left no room for thought or error.
He broke through the saja line, then hesitated as he found himself face-to-face with a soldier. The man shouted and charged. Triston side-stepped the strike and kept running.
The soldiers called out warnings to one another, but Triston hardly heard them. He found his father’s cloak—that short red one he always wore in battle—pressed with the other men in the front of the line, fighting back saja. A hand grasped Triston’s shoulder; he shook it off. A sword swung at his neck, but he parried the stroke in stride.
“Father!”
The sounds of battle swallowed his voice, and he might as well have not spoken at all. Triston leapt forward and caught hold of his father’s cloak.
Dradge spun around, his sword aimed at Triston’s neck. Triston parried and Dradge lunged forward with a thrust. Triston caught his blade, spinning it upwards until their swords locked between them.
“Look at me!”
There were dark circles under Dradge’s eyes, an unkempt beard on his cheeks, and it hurt to see the wrinkles on his father’s face—it was like the past week had aged him a year. Rage burned in Dradge’s eyes, but as they fell on Triston’s face, the emotion drained from him. He was like a man frozen in time, caught between impossible hope and stoic disbelief.
“Father, it’s me.”
Dradge stumbled back. “Triston?”
“Yes, Seren—” A saja launched itself at his father’s shoulder. “Get down!”
His father ducked, and with one wide swing, Triston sliced the creature’s throat with the tip of his sword. Dradge glanced down at the writhing carcass, then spun back around to fell the next twisted creature that made its way through the line.
“Call the retreat!”
Dradge turned to him. “Why? We’ve almost got all these damned things—”
“Call the retreat!” Triston didn’t have time to explain it all here.
Finally, his father nodded. Dradge picked up the horn slung over his shoulders and pressed it to his lips. Triston plugged the ear nearest the horn and listened with a sinking heart as that melancholy tune echoed out among the trees. Very few times had he ever heard that played in earnest.
“Come on!” Dradge motioned for Triston to follow as he made a break for a tree line not far away. The soldiers fell back as commanded, and Triston jogged at his father’s heels until they reached the herd of horses the king’s company had left among the trees. Dradge swung himself up into the saddle, Triston followed close behind, and together they led the charge back to camp.
As soon as his father’s horse passed into the courtyard, Triston dismounted and moved to the edge to allow the other men who had followed to pass him by. Dradge circled his horse around to Triston’s side then leapt from the saddle as the others rode in behind him.
Dradge stepped forward, slowly, as he studied every curve of Triston’s face. He lifted a hand to touch his cheek. “How…?”
Triston tried to go back to the beginning. “Last week, at the edge of the Deorwynn—”
Dradge pulled him close and smothered him in a hug.
Triston grimaced as his father’s arms crushed his injured shoulder, but relief overwhelmed the pain. It didn’t seem possible, but for just that moment it felt as though he’d set everything in the world right.
“There were so many endless, dark days I can’t even count them, and I thought I’d never see your face again…” Dradge pushed Triston back, gripping him by the shoulders. His eyes were red—only once before had Triston seen his father cry—but Dradge managed a smile anyway. “I have half a mind to never let you out of my sight again, boy.” His eyes fixed on Triston’s bloodied shoulder. “Look at you! What happened? Gods, what am I…” He took a step forward, waving a hand toward the rest of the company. “Hey! I need—”
“It’s alright.” Triston caught his father by the arm. “It’s as good as it’ll get for now.”
Dradge frowned, but he let it go. “Did those rebels lie, then? Sending me that charred body, to do what?”
As succinctly as he could manage, Triston explained everything that had happened to him since Colmac deserted. At first his father was naturally skeptical, but all the pieces fit too well—Triston knew that himself—and as the story unfolded, Dradge’s hesitance gave way to anger.
