The Hidden Queen, page 49
We don’t have to wait long. As if guided by some intelligence, the creatures wait until our entire force is committed to the descent, then they drop from hidden roosts amid the stalactites above.
Those on the wall are the first hit. The minoc dive, long proboscises leading like spears. Warriors raise warded shields, but these are not corelings, and the magic does not respond as it should. Victims are knocked onto their backs as the creatures drive their suckers into flesh and begin to drink.
The result is horrifying. I can see the auras of the victims dimming as those of the hunters brighten. Soul drinkers, the alagai hora called them, and as it always is with the dice, too late I understand.
Fighters rush to defend their siblings in arms, Sharum spearing any sucker that stays in place too long as Cutters hack them apart with axes. The creatures are not large enough to carry off their prey like wind demons, but they knock victims from the wall, feeding on them where they fall.
A flight of the creatures descends on us, but here, Rhinebeck is in his element once more. The prince opens fire, dropping the winged terrors from the sky as easily as clay discs. His corps do the same, but there are thousands of minoc in the swarm, and they are moving fast. Hollowers fire into the cloud, sometimes hitting as much by luck as aim, but it isn’t enough to halt the attack.
Some of the Hollowers fire their flamework weapons at the creatures attacking the wall. They score some kills, but it comes at a cost. I hear screams of pain from allies struck by friendly fire.
“Fools!” Rhinebeck barks. “Don’t shoot at the wall!” He’s right to be frustrated. Know what’s behind your target was one of the first—and most repeated—lessons he and his instructors taught when they began drilling my soldiers.
The sounds draw more of the minoc from all over the gorge. We have their attention now, and a swarm comes our way. “Princes!” I cry. “Guard the Flamework Corps!”
My spear brothers lift their shields as the creatures dive in, faster than the Flamework Corps can chamber and fire. Rhinebeck continues to shoot as I cover him with my shield. His hands are a blur, from belt to chamber to the bolt and trigger and back again, over and over.
But there are too many. I see them crash into Sharum shields, and am stunned when their proboscises punch clear through the steel-banded wood and hit targets, knocking them from the wall and draining their auras.
Three of the soul drinkers dive at us. Rhinebeck kills two, and I put up my shield against the last. Even this creature’s enchanted snout cannot pierce warded glass, but the impact still takes me clear off my feet. I scramble to regain footing, but there’s only air as I fall twenty feet from the wall, landing hard on my back.
The minoc is unfazed by the impact, bobbing like a woodpecker as it searches for a weakness in my Tazhan armor. Before I can recover, it finds one, stabbing its sucker between the links and driving it into my shoulder.
I’ve been stabbed before. Shot with arrows. Impaled on alagai talons. Nothing ever hurt like this. I feel the creature begin to suck, see not just my blood pumping up its proboscis, but my very life-force, my aura, sucked up with it. I scream, grabbing the appendage with both hands and hauling it, inch by excruciating inch, out of my body.
Six slender segmented legs stab at me like tiny spears. I ignore them, trusting in my armor to hold long enough for me to pull the sucker free. The moment it’s out of my body, I use the energy of the minoc’s next thrash to turn the proboscis aside as I reverse the pin and smash it against the stone of the courtyard floor.
The soul drinker pops like any other insect, its exoskeleton shattering and exploding with foul goo.
There’s fighting all around me as I stagger to my feet. Another of the minoc dives at me, but I have something akin to Rhinebeck’s battle rage now, and I swing my shield, smashing it in midair.
“They’re just bugs!” I activate the sound wards on Micha’s choker and roar the words for all to hear as I hold up my gore-covered shield. “Smash them!”
“You heard the duch!” Gared booms from somewhere in the melee. “Scrape ’em off your boots!”
Wards on my armor come to life, absorbing the magic from the creature’s innards just like they would demon ichor. Whatever I lost is returned to me with interest, and my muscles surge with strength borne of outrage. I look up and see Rhiney still fighting, shifting targets in all directions.
Minoc drop from the sky with his every shot, and he ignores his own advice, firing with precision into the melees in and out of the csar walls, picking off soul drinkers that have warriors pinned.
I get a running start and leap, landing atop the twenty-foot wall beside Rhinebeck with such force my feet drive inches deep into the packed soil.
A cheer goes up at the sight. I am always reluctant to display my true strength in front of others. Mother drilled that into me before I had any understanding of why. But here, in the chaos of battle, it’s good for our fighters to see their leader has power.
“Ignore the ones that come for you,” I tell Rhinebeck. He doesn’t posture like a Sharum might, or doubt my ability to defend him. He simply nods and turns his distance lens back down to the yard, aiding those in close combat as only he can. The weapon belches smoke, another minoc destroyed mid-feed.
There isn’t a lot of time between puncture and death. Less than it would take to drain sufficient blood to kill. The minoc may drink a bit of blood, but it is the magic they want. They leave a victim as soon as it snuffs. Rhinebeck wields his rifle like a dama’ting scalpel, slicing them off their prey before they reach the point of no return.
The soul drinkers see it, targeting Rhiney and the others with flamework weapons, trying to knock them from the wall like they did to me.
But my spear brothers and I are ready for them now. Every man or woman with a flamework weapon has an honor guard now. The chaos of battle has forced our warriors to mix, with Sharum and Cutters and the Royal Angierian Flamework Corps fighting side by side in trust.
I find rhythm in it, the sprung readiness of my center exploding into motion as I skewer or shield bash any soul drinker that comes at my prince. I create a bubble of safety around him that lets him focus fully on his task.
Together, we are devastating.
By the time their personal ammunition runs out, the Flamework Corps have turned the tide, giving our fighters the time they needed to regroup and adapt to the new threat. Hollow Soldiers with crank bows target the brightly glowing soul drinkers rushing to escape after feeding, and the Warders find another use for the desiccation wards they have practiced endlessly the last few days.
We’ll need the water to wash off all the bug guts.
* * *
—
The csar cannot house everyone, but there is space in its walls for those most in need. Food and water are abundant thanks to the spells of the warders and dama’ting. We post guards everywhere while those who saw combat are tended to.
The rest of my forces, safely down from the caldera steps, circle the csar to keep its protective walls at their back as they make camp.
For the first time in days, I have a roof over my head that isn’t a natural cavern ceiling. The chambers for visitors of rank are small in the canyon csar, but in the dark below, any private chamber is a luxury. Even better is the small tub that lets me scrub off the greasy remains of smashed minoc.
Rhinebeck and I are able to have dinner together as we did on the surface, smelling like something close to our usual selves. We start with talk of wounded and our plans for the climb back out of the canyon, but there is little that hasn’t already been discussed with our lieutenants.
“I should have taken out that one that knocked you from the wall,” Rhiney says, when the other talk has been exhausted. “I’m sorry.”
I reach across the table, putting my hand over his. “You shouldn’t have needed to. I was there to protect you.”
Rhinebeck turns his palm up, and our fingers wrap around each other’s, sharing warmth and the bond of spear brothers. “We can protect each other.”
I feel pulled in at the words, leaning closer until my lips nearly touch his. “Always.”
Rhinebeck freezes for a moment, his aura flashing cold like it did when Razeel came at him with the knife. I feel a sheen of fear sweat build between our palms and I start to pull back, but Rhiney moves suddenly, kissing me before the moment has a chance to evaporate.
It’s not like Chadan’s kisses. Or Lanna’s. Every kiss is different, Selen used to say, and I’m beginning to understand. It used to be Selen going around kissing everyone she met to try them on for size, and I was jealous. Now I’m becoming just like her.
Yet Selen always seemed to shrug those encounters off, while each one has been a seismic blow to my emotions. Am I really kissing Prince Rhinebeck? Rhiney? Who used to write me terrible poetry, and hated his astronomy tutor?
I worry it’s a terrible mistake, but I don’t want it to end.
When it is over, both of us are breathless. There’s a knock at the door, and we pull apart quickly, putting our royal masks back on.
Rhinebeck swallows. “Olive, I…”
I try to think of what Selen would say. “I did that because I wanted to. And I enjoyed it. But it is not a promise between us, or our duchies.”
“Of course,” Rhinebeck agrees, though I don’t know if either of us believes it.
“Come in,” I call, hoping the delay was not too great. Gared and Amanvah enter as Rhinebeck, blushing, takes his leave to get some sleep.
Gared raises an eyebrow. “You kids need a chaperone?”
“Tsst.” Amanvah’s hiss is low.
“You may be old enough to be my parents, but you are not them,” I remind, perhaps more tartly than I would like. “I will decide for myself who I kiss, or not.”
“I do not care who you kiss, sister,” Amanvah says, “but the prince of Angiers is not worthy of you.”
That lights a fire under me. “Well that’s the night calling it dark. Didn’t folk say the same about you and Rojer Halfgrip?”
Gared snorts. “Ent no one in favor of that match at first, but they made it work.”
“Indeed,” Amanvah says. “But my husband was spoken to by Everam. Prince Rhinebeck…”
I put my hands on my hips. “Prince Rhinebeck what? Have your dice divulged some secret?”
Amanvah shakes her head. “Not the dice. But I have seen many men in my life. When it is put to the test, that one’s courage will fail.”
I scowl, wanting to shout at her. I’m sick of predictions and sick of being underestimated. I open my mouth, knowing it’s unwise, but then Gared clears his throat.
“Your grandda is awake.”
* * *
—
Erny’s recovery is a relief, but Amanvah’s words keep with me as we resume our trek. How dare she speak of Rhiney so? After he’s left safe Angiers to be with me—with us—on this dangerous journey? Perhaps he is afraid, but that only makes his glory greater.
We find the fourth csar consumed by mushrooms, this at the edge of an underground lake. A newly built bridge spans the distance. We feared it might be destroyed, but it appears Alagai Ka did not have the resources for that.
The waters are dark, almost magic-dead. There are no signs of demons, but there are tubelike shells growing from the bridge supports like barnacles. Worms appear from the tubes, drawn to our magic. They will drain it just like minoc if they manage to touch us.
Everything in this underground world seems to feed on magic as much as any nutrient. Father wrote of the worms in his accounts, and we know how to counter them. Sharum clad only in their bidos cut them from the supports with long spears, dropping them into the water where they cannot reach us.
There are other obstacles. A Hollow Soldier is killed by a group of Sharum, and it nearly tears our alliance apart before the dama’ting discover the fungus in his veins.
Everyone begins eyeing one another with mistrust after that, worried the person next to them is infected, or they themselves are. Guns are pointed at friends rather than the enemy, and more than one fight breaks out between paranoid warriors.
“Can’t you suck the water out of us, make sure we’re not infected?” Gared asks.
“If we wanted to kill everyone, I suppose.” Erny’s voice is calm. A gentle reminder, not an admonishment. Gared only grunts.
The sixth csar and its environs are free of mushrooms, but infected instead with a caustic slime that dissolves everything it touches, absorbing magic and multiplying. The slime has eaten inhabitants and fortress alike, leaving a fetid ruin amid a cavern covered in great patches of slime.
This, too, Father wrote of, and I heard the tale firsthand from Mrs. Bales.
“The slime must have eaten their wards like sugar,” Rhinebeck says.
The moment we draw near, the ooze senses our magic and comes to life, dipping and cresting like the surface of a lake. Slowly, like pouring molasses, it reaches toward us.
Fortunately, even magic slime needs water to survive. We desiccate the chamber as we did the fungal colonies, but a few soldiers and horses are lost to fresh slime dripping down from the stalactites above.
Flame and unwarded canvas ultimately prove the best protection. With no magic to feed on, the slime dissolves the fibers more slowly, giving those beneath time to kill it with fire. We break into our precious stores of torches and lamps, traveling in the light for the first time in weeks.
We’re drawing close to the final waystation when Rhiney and I move from a narrow tunnel into a widening cavern and find a wall of our bodyguards blocking the way. My Princes have shields set and spears drawn, interspersed with the Royal Angierian Flamework Corps officers, rifles fixed on something ahead.
I stand up in my stirrups and see Briar and Jaavi encircled by a pack of ghostly shadows that look like great hounds, eyes glowing and talons clacking on the stone floor.
Gwilji. The dogs of darkness who ate alagai flesh and turned on their masters three thousand years ago.
But the dogs do not attack. They growl and pace, keeping our scouts trapped in a web of tooth and claw.
Behind them, I see the reason. Hundreds of alamen fae warriors fill the passage, spears in hand. Their large eyes shine eerily in the darkness.
I see now why Kriva had to come. The alamen fae in the front ranks present as male, broad with muscle under thick carpets of hair. They pace and beat their chests, trying to goad our disciplined warriors into dominance games.
The gwilji heel the fae like hounds do their masters, but the warriors seem unwilling or unable to negotiate, refusing to release Jaavi and Briar—if they understand us at all.
Then ancient Kriva makes it to the front of our ranks and pushes through. Immediately the warriors lower their weapons and take a more respectful posture.
Their ranks open and an older female comes forward. She is not as old as Kriva, but her ceremonial staff is hung with bottles and pouches full of cures. The two put their heads together, and a moment later Briar and Jaavi rejoin our ranks.
“Amanvah, Roni, Olive.” Kriva’s voice takes on an air of command as she beckons us forward. We are in her place of power now. This is a summons, not an invitation.
I step forward, eyeing the alamen fae warriors with their crude weapons less than the dogs of darkness at their heels. Gwilji look like ghosts because their bodies have all but dissipated. Weapons are said to pass right through them, and obstacles hinder them about as much as Darin Bales. Only their jaws and claws remain solid, and must be cut away to destroy them.
The tale of how gwilji nearly killed my father and his companions is legendary. He was forced to draw upon the full magic of the Spear of Ala to defeat the demon dogs, yet somehow, the fae have brought them to heel.
“Havell.” Kriva points her staff at the leader of the fae.
“Well meeting you.” Havell’s accent is thick, but her words are clear. I open my mouth to reply, but she turns back to Kriva, speaking once more in the language of the deep.
It’s hard to look regal and engaged for long periods of time when the debate is in a language you don’t understand. Amanvah takes on the neutral serenity dama’ting are known for. I settle for imposing, standing at attention and watching closely, trying to pick out Krasian words or recognizable gestures.
Their auras tell me more than my other senses can learn. There is no animosity between these leaders. The fae are not our enemy.
“Doveen,” Kriva says. The other fae matriarch turns to me. Her glowing eyes seem to look right through me. “Kinser ah Erram.”
Child of Everam.
* * *
—
The fae open their ranks and guide us to the final csar, still under their control, but cut off from the others. I see modern Sharum patrolling the walls, and dama at the gates, watching our approach. At the far end of the cavern is another narrow tunnel, this one sealed with a warded gate.
“The Spear lies on the other side,” Briar advises. “In your father’s time this passage was underwater, but his engineers diverted the flow and cut a tunnel of standard length.”
“Why is it sealed?” Rhiney sounds like he doesn’t really want to know.
“Alagai,” Havell confirms.
“She says the gates of the Spear opened of their own accord one day,” Kriva says.
Havell grunts her agreement. “Nothing in our power could close them again. Denizens of the dark flooded the streets. The alagai could not enter Sharik Hora, but minoc, cave weavers, gwilji, and other creatures could.”
