The Hidden Queen, page 48
Grandda appears up ahead and we hurry past as he and his Warders take out their electrum pens. Following Erny’s steady lead, they draw wards of air, gathering ambient magic to form a foul wind of our army’s stench to blow the smoke away before people begin to choke.
The trick reveals the true attack, a unit of Sharum warriors charging from the dissipating smoke, shields up and spears leading. These haven’t begun to sprout, perhaps infected more recently.
Amanvah warned of the hand of Alagai Ka, and I see it here. He cannot muster the drones to strike us while still guarding Safehold, but the demon has cultivated the mushrooms like a crop. It must have been simple to send drones to known pockets of the spores and then command them to race to favorable locations once they were infected to start—and defend—new colonies.
The control the spores exert over their hosts is clumsier, more brutal, than mind demon possession, but impressive in its own right. It has no range limit, cannot be resisted with will alone, and leaves the body with most of its skills and muscle memory until it decays beyond function.
“I do not wish to kill Sharum spear brothers,” Menin says.
“They are no brothers of ours,” I tell him. “Not anymore. They are taken by the spores, just as surely as if Alagai Ka had possessed them.”
Rhiney has a line of riflemen ready, but they are holding fire. He turns to me. “Do we shoot? I don’t want to release more spores, but we cannot risk fighting in close.”
In that we agree. I turn to Erny. “Can you burn them?”
“We can,” Erny says, “if we want to trade infection for suffocation. Better to freeze.”
I nod. “That’s what Mrs. Bales says they did last time.”
Erny and the Warders trace cold wards in silver light, powering them effortlessly this deep underground. The attacking Sharum slow and stiffen in mid-stride, their skin turning a pale blue rimed with frost. One falls over and simply shatters.
I shudder, in part from horror, and in part from the steep temperature drop in the previously hot tunnel. My breath steams through my veil as I move to inspect the fallen soldiers.
They appear normal, but I dare not touch or get in close. The biting cold would kill any normal fungus, but who knows if it is enough for these magical spores.
Erny and his Warders take no chances, chilling the air until the very tunnel walls coat with rime. Normally I am not bothered by cold, or heat. A benefit of the magic that shaped me. But even I have my limits, and quickly pass them.
“We can’t keep this up,” I call through chattering teeth. Erny is already lowering his pen, perhaps having come to the same conclusion.
We retreat to confer, with my lieutenants coming up the line. I am grateful for the warmth of the huddle as we put our heads together to discuss.
“We can’t freeze the whole chamber,” I say. “We’d be killing ourselves as much as the mushrooms.”
“We can’t burn our way through, either,” Erny says. “We’d be roasted alive, if the smoke doesn’t choke us first.”
“Can we just mask up and hack ’em all to pieces?” General Gared asks.
I shake my head. “I won’t risk us getting infected.”
For once, the general seems relieved at not having to fight. “Flamework? Liquid demonfire?”
Gatherer Roni shakes her head. “We don’t have enough to set the whole chamber alight, and it would leave us with the same problems as using magical fire.”
“Perhaps we can retreat?” Rhiney suggests. “Send a team to burn the place and wait out the smoke?”
I still don’t like it. We’re already moving so slowly, and ready to go mad from the tight tunnels and endless dark. How long do we have before these tunnels fill with demons, racing to return to their nest?
My throat is raw, and my sinuses as well. The cold wards have sucked all the moisture from the air. As I reach for my canteen, I’m reminded of the wards Mother uses in the royal gardens to pull moisture from the air to the plants that need it, or to draw moisture from saturated soil before it can drown root systems.
I look to Grandda. “Desiccation?”
“Ay, that should work.” Erny beams at me, and I feel a flush of pride. This isn’t Mother leading me to an answer she already knew. “We can kill the fungus and refill our freshwater supply in one stroke.”
“Ay, reckon you want to drink mushroom water?” Gared asks.
“It will be quite safe,” Amanvah says. “The dama’ting have used the spell to purify tainted water for centuries.”
There is a bit of trial and error as the Warders and dama’ting warm the chamber up ahead and draw out the moisture as the infected corpses thaw. They direct it at a set of barrels brought forward, and they are soon close to overflowing.
I stare at the water in wardsight, but it is black, visible only for its absence against the glow of life and magic all around us. Water is a poor conductor of magic, and the desiccation process has destroyed any life that might have lived within.
The barrels are sealed and rolled back as more are brought forward. A dark road is cut through the mushroom colony, devoid of life, as Warders slowly desiccate everything in our army’s path. More defenders appear, but as they draw close, the Warders and dama’ting turn the magic on them. I watch with horror as eyes shrivel into prunes and skin tightens and sinks in until it tears like paper and the bodies collapse into dust.
Nevertheless, none of us feel safe. We try not to breathe as we drink to replace water lost with each exhalation in the dry air.
We lose a day before the column can begin moving again, and it takes hours to pass through the cavern. The intact csar is tempting, and I consider taking the time to clear it completely, but this is the first of no doubt many obstacles, and we cannot afford the time.
I stay behind with an honor guard to protect Grandda and the Warders as he works tirelessly to keep the road secure. Rhiney looks like he would prefer to have ridden on, but remains unwilling to leave my side.
We’ve begun to feel secure when Corporal Taler raises his rifle and shoots my grandfather in the back.
Erny doesn’t cry out, or thrash, simply letting out a wheeze and falling to the ground. I react on instinct, grabbing the barrel and lifting it high even as Taler chambers another round. I don’t give him time to fire it, whipping the blade of my spear through his neck and sending his head tumbling through the air.
There are no spores, but in wardsight I can see fungus growing like veins in his neck. Blood that should have pumped in powerful jets simply dribbles from the wound.
I don’t waste time to investigate further, rushing to my grandfather as I call for help. “Amanvah! Roni!”
Erny is still breathing when I reach him, but it is labored, and he is pale from loss of blood. I stem the flow with pressure and look up, searching for a healer. Instead I see Razeel throw his spear, taking down another Warder, even as Gerges rushes at one of the dama’ting, spear leading.
The woman sees him coming, and moves with the fluid grace of a sharusahk master. She diverts the blade and steals my spear brother’s strength and momentum, flipping him to the ground. Before he can recover, she raises her hora wand, desiccating him.
Razeel pulls a knife, but Rhiney lifts his weapon, shooting clear through my spear brother’s shield and into his body. It’s a fine shot, but Razeel is unhindered, lunging in with his blade.
Rhiney flinches back and screams in fear, his aura going cold. My instinct is to rush to his aid, but doing that would mean removing the pressure that is keeping Grandda from bleeding out.
Rhiney backs away, looking around for a path to flee. It’s for the best, if terror has taken him. Other defenders are closing in. But then Rhiney’s aura changes, turning dark and jagged. Still screaming, he explodes into motion, knocking the blade aside with the barrel of his weapon and spinning it like a whip-staff to bring the stock down, shattering Razeel’s knee.
Rhinebeck doesn’t stop there, falling on my spear brother and bashing him about the head with his rifle stock, over and over until his men pull him off, still shrieking and swinging. Razeel lies lifeless, aura snuffed out, his head looking like a shattered pumpkin.
I feel Grandda’s heart slowing beneath the hand I press against his wound. His breath has become the occasional slow wheeze. “Gatherer!” I bellow, and I bend to look in his eyes. “You’re going to be all right, Grandda. You’re a hero. Grandmum will never question it again. No one will.”
A slight smile twitches at the corners of his mouth at the words, but behind his warded spectacles, his eyes have lost focus.
Amanvah reaches me, but it takes a moment for me to realize. “I can…”
“Peace, sister,” Amanvah says quietly, pulling my hands away. “I know my craft.”
Faseek is there to steady me as I get numbly to my feet. I see a flare of magic from Amanvah’s hands as my spear brothers surround me protectively, but I can’t bear to watch. To hope. I’ve witnessed this scene too many times.
Rhinebeck still shouts and thrashes. His men hold him tight, keeping him from harm as they speak soothing words. None of them seem surprised at their charming, jovial prince’s sudden murderous rage.
And why should they? The stories of his uncle Prince Thamos were much the same. Full of fear until battle was upon him, and then fearless beyond reason.
There is courage in the battle rage, for what is courage, if not action in the face of fear? The greater the fear, the greater the courage of the warrior who overcomes it. Especially in defense of one’s people. I can see why Mother loved Prince Thamos. He didn’t seek violence, but neither did he flee from it.
I knew fighters like them in sharaj—fought beside them in the Maze—though the drillmasters did their best to stamp out such behavior. Action in the face of fear does a warrior honor, but those who let rage consume them were dangerous to themselves and others. Such warriors often made foolish choices, taking hits they could have avoided in exchange for a quick kill, or abandoning their position in a defensive formation. Some became unable to tell friend from foe, or halt a blow thrown in error. Their lack of discipline threatened the cohesion of the unit.
But Rhinebeck is not part of a unit. He is the leader, not a scale in a shield wall. His position allows him to be effective in dealing with outlying problems the ranks in formation can’t. If the prince is called upon to fight in close, things have become dire indeed.
I go to him, pushing past my protective brothers and Rhiney’s soldiers to kneel before my friend.
“Careful, Your Grace,” his lieutenant cautions as I gentle his hands away, much as Amanvah did with mine. Rhinebeck tenses as I draw close, my hands still wet with Grandda’s blood. I’ve been crying, and I let him see.
Rhinebeck lunges at me, but I catch him in my arms and hold him close. He’s as big as I am, but I’m stronger. He isn’t trying to hurt me in any event, just thrashing.
“It’s all right,” I whisper in his ear. I kiss his cheek, feeling our tears mingle. “You’re all right. The fight is over.”
That last is a lie. Things are only going to worsen as we progress, but I’ve learned to take victories when they come, and celebrate them while I can.
Rhinebeck calms, and then sobs into my shoulder. I turn from the others, wrapping my cloak around us both as I lead him away.
“Inevera,” Amanvah says at last, cutting off my questions. “Your grandfather will wake, or he will not, as Everam wills.”
There’s a finality to her tone, and I know she’s right. Erny had stopped breathing when Amanvah reached him. Her spells restarted his heart and lungs, but he has not woken. Amanvah and Roni agree this is common in such cases, but every day that passes makes it more likely he will not, or will wake disabled in mind or body. In the meantime, he rests in one of the Gatherers’ carts.
“What about the fungus?” Rhinebeck struggles to keep the tension from his voice. “Have you learned anything?”
“Incubation can occur in as little as twenty-four hours from exposure,” Roni says, “but it’s a slow process, and varies no doubt by weight and the number of spores. Based on our observations, the infected would not be ready to spore until much later. Days, perhaps even weeks. The demons who infected the men were in a later stage, still. So consumed on the inside they were little more than a flesh bag of spores, just mobile enough to travel wherever the colony wants to expand and explode.”
Rhinebeck’s aura takes on a tinge of green, and I share the sentiment. It’s been three days, and the second waystation was just as colonized as the first. We’ve lost half a dozen to infection, and four more to the murderous control that forces them to defend the colony. Every Warder, dama’ting, and Gatherer performing desiccation has a personal bodyguard now, and it’s rare the possessed can cause real harm. Amanvah’s dice have led us to several of the infected before they could wreak havoc, but so far a cure eludes us.
We smell better, at least. The abundance of water from the spells has allowed us to wash and rinse away the worst of the filth as we make our way down.
Rhiney’s been subdued since the first attack, something of his easy charm lost in the warrior rage. He’s used to killing from a distance, or at least wounding prey to allow an easy kill in close. He is not without skill in close—Razeel could attest to that—but he’s a rifleman first. Killing with your hands is harder, both in practice and emotionally. Some cannot bring themselves to do it at all. Others are haunted by memories of what they are capable of.
I want to reach out to Rhiney, to put my hand on his, to offer comfort and care. But while we’ve been together almost constantly, we’re never alone. It would be improper, and perhaps undermine his authority.
Tarisa was Prince Thamos’ nanny before she was mine, and she would speak of him like he was her own son, voice full of love. In those descriptions, I see so much of Rhiney. A good man and a good leader, wanting nothing more than to do right by everyone, even if it means his own life.
Araine was strict, but it was always to the benefit of her duchy. Angiers was in ruins when she took power, and she taught her grandson that their privilege came with duty. To be the voice of reason. To protect his people. Like his grandmother, Rhinebeck tries to be the voice of reason, mediating and guiding, though in his inexperience he lacks much of her wisdom.
The tunnel gets closer as we make a steep descent. I hear the groan of wagon brakes, and wonder what would happen if a cart of ammunition were to begin rolling out of control. The ceiling lowers to the point where we have to dismount and lead the increasingly nervous animals.
I am beginning to think bringing them was a mistake when suddenly the tunnel opens up to a massive gorge, bigger than anything I’ve ever seen on the surface. So wide it stretches even the limits of wardsight. Down on the canyon floor, I can see the third csar, and it looks intact.
Perhaps some ancient river carved this underground canyon, but if so, the water is long gone. Too dry, it seems, even for the mushroom colonies. There is no sign of them, but I know better than to relax our guard.
The remains of an ancient bridge are scaffolded and under repair, but with years of work yet to be done before they can span the distance to the far side of the gorge.
Long steps have been cut into the canyon walls in the meantime, leading down to the csar that housed the construction crews. There’s a lift, as well, and after our engineers test it, we begin using it to expedite movement of the heavier supply.
“Surely we should take the lift down,” Rhinebeck says, “so you can take command of the csar.”
It’s a thin excuse. Gared has already put Hollowers on the packed soil walls of the csar and raised my banner. But the steps down are back to standard Krasian width, made smaller by animals and foot soldiers shying away from the edge. It will take hours to get down, and the better part of a day for our entire column, the first of whom are reaching the floor now.
“I think you’re right,” I say, and the two of us take the next lift, along with Amanvah and Kriva. The view is spectacular as weighted lines slowly lower us down.
“It is good to be reminded that the world is bigger than we know.” Rhinebeck might have been speaking to anyone, but he stands close to me. Closer than any Krasian man would stand to another man. So close I can feel the heat of him, and the suede of his jacket when it brushes against my arm. Again I resist an urge to take his hand.
Instead I take a deep breath, enjoying the sense of freedom outside the cramped and claustrophobic tunnels. The breath quickly kills the mood. The air reeks, a smell that worsens the farther we descend. When we reach the bottom, I see the ground is covered in some kind of excrement, rich with bacteria that glow softly in wardsight.
“Predators?” Rhinebeck asks. “Something must have killed whoever was living here.”
I look around, but there is no sign of sentient life among the stalagmite mounds. Still, I drop my shield onto my arm.
Briar and Jaavi are waiting at the bottom for us, along with my Princes Unit and Rhinebeck’s personal guard.
Kriva squats as she gets off the lift, putting a finger in the filth and sniffing it. Her large eyes glow in the darkness as she looks up to the stalactite-covered cavern ceiling far above. “Minoc.” The word sounds similar to the Krasian for “mosquito.”
“Insects?” I slap my arm, miming killing a bug. I already know it’s impossible, looking at the volume of waste.
Kriva confirms my fears with a shake of her head. “Big.” She holds her hands perhaps eighteen inches apart, and I get that sick feeling in my stomach that comes right before a fight.
Jaavi raises a fist with a single finger extended. This he stabs into his own chest. “Blood drinkers.”
“Prince Rhinebeck…” I say.
“On it.” Rhiney is already moving. His sergeant raises a whistle and blows a series of notes, gathering anyone with a flamework weapon and directing them to the csar’s walltop. The rest of us follow quickly after, getting into the relative safety of the csar.
