The Sons of Hull (23 page)

Vancien resumed his plucking at Nagab’s fur. “But what about her soul?”

“Her soul is important, yes, but it’s not in your hands.
Your
task is simply the culmination of ten thousand score.”

“But what if she’s some sort of culmination? What if her choice represents the final ten thousand score?”

Telenar could not accept this. “That’s heresy, Vance, and you know it. There may be more to her than first appears, but the fight is between you and Amarian. If you forget that, then Zyreio has already won.”

Vancien nodded as if he had not really heard the warning. Seeing his words so lightly taken, Telenar impatiently kicked Lansing in front of Nagab’s path and forced Vancien to look into his eyes. When he spoke, his voice trembled with rage.

“Vancien pa Hull, you are considering treason. May Kynell slay you now and find another Advocate if you refuse to take your burden seriously. Do you hear me?
Do you hear me?
”

Vancien’s jaw was set as he returned his friend’s fierce gaze. “I hear you, Telenar. But you are not the only one I hear. You have the Ages and I have them, too. But they are not everything.
Kynell
is everything. I march on his orders, not yours. He does not want me to abandon Verial and I doubt that he would look kindly upon you charging an Advocate with heresy.”

Telenar was furious, but he could only watch helplessly as Vancien pushed past him and rode up to visit with N’vonne and Verial. What had gotten into that boy? How much damage could he wreak before the Dedication? And what happened when an Advocate of the Prysm became consumed with his own pride?

__________

The sky was rumbling, causing Amarian to nod in satisfaction as he gazed out the window. Rain would be coming soon, which was all the better. The sea of campsites surrounding the castle was beginning to stink, sending wave after wave of stench up to his private chamber, which was situated at Donech's highest convenient point. Such locations were hard to come by in the Eastern Lands, which were mostly flat and windy, with few trees and fewer hills. The fortress itself mirrored the landscape. It was flat, no more than three stories, and sprawling: thick walls formed an oblong pentagon that housed only the barest necessities: a sparse kitchen, a cavernous great hall, and Amarian’s most trusted servants. At the extended point of the pentagon, sticking up like a thorn, was the tower that housed Amarian’s chambers. Except for a suffocatingly close servants’ access, it was accessible only by a narrow staircase leading to an iron-barred door. Though he did his best to ensure loyalty among his followers, Obsidian’s Advocate knew better than to rely on such a tenuous virtue.

From his vantage point, he could look down on the rest of the fortress, as well as the surrounding encampments. He had made certain that all of his marshaled forces were gathered at the western point, within view of his tower. If any settlements were found outside of his scope of vision, they were summarily and roughly moved to a more desirable location. It was also equally important that all of his forces could see him, or at least a reminder of him. His high chambers were perfect for such a purpose, providing an aura of omnipresence and inaccessibility at the same time.

He stretched, gathering his thoughts as well as his robe around him. He would need to leave soon if he was going to reach Relgaré’s army before they forded the Preshin. With one last look at the cloudy sky, he glanced around to make sure everything was prepared, including the empty suit in the corner. He needed to look like a commander, after all. This particular breed of armor was a specially tinted dark gray, easily hidden in the mist, lightweight, and quiet when he moved. Not that he would need armor for a while. Zyreio would protect him until the Dedication, but it helped to look the part. With a nod to his servant, who was busily packing up the various metal plates, he wandered down to the stables in the courtyard to observe his magnificent new steed.

Rhyvelad was full of marvelous beasts, some of them friendly to humans, some of them not. In Amarian’s time, many of them had gone into hiding, having been driven away Zyreio’s manifold corruptions. Only a few of them had become bold enough to show their faces (or whatever served that purpose) along the outskirts of the world’s civilized population. Gryphons had occasionally been spotted in the peaks far north of the Eastern Lands, where only outcasts and ambitious Ulanese travelers went. With a fennel body and the head and wings of a bird of prey, they were fierce creatures but quite rash, headstrong, and not well-suited for human companionship. Ealatrophes, meanwhile, verged on immortal: their gryphonic heritage made them aggressive, but their Destrariae blood was said to have flowed straight from under Kynell’s throne. As Vancien had already experienced, Destrariae cold pierced through any living thing; priests labeled it
klathonus
, as bright as the Prysm’s truth and as unchangeable. Such a peculiar combination of
klathonus
and gryphon produced a valiant, holy creature scarcely accessible to humans—unless, like Kynell himself, it decided to restrain its glory and allow a mortal to approach.

Neither of these creatures were suitable for Amarian’s purposes. But there remained one beast, one holdout that smacked of Rhyvelad’s earliest days, when giants were common and voyoté were just a twinkle in Kynell’s eye. Like the gryphons and Ealatrophes, these creatures were holdovers from the days before Zyreio’s deceit had captured the hearts of men, the days when, for all creatures, Obsidian was just a dark stain on the horizon. It was a time when men could be trusted with beasts and vice versa, so Kynell had created with abandon, instilling all his creation with a level of power, beauty, and swiftness that mirrored his own qualities. Only much later, when Zyreio had drawn many men and beasts to himself, did Kynell withdraw most of these great beauties from Rhyvelad’s mantle, leaving behind only those that begged to stay. (In order that man might not be alone, however, in work and companionship, he created
galthis
, or helpers. The most versatile and least intelligent of these is the voyoté, but there is also the fennel and the munkke-trophe. Since that time, many fennels have fallen in bondage to Obsidian. Theirs is a dark history, but not as dark as the Sentries, which is a history for another time.)

Of the three early giants that remained, the only ones that could now possibly be of great service to Obsidian were the dragons. The Patroniites
called them
eiresa
because after Zyreio’s great deception, the few remaining dragons of Rhyvelad had offered to serve as emissaries between the Prysm and Obsidian. (The term
eiresa
means simply ‘one who chooses,’ implying that one chooses repetitively and poorly.) Kynell declined their offer, but Zyreio greedily accepted. So for many cycles, the dragon ferried messages back and forth between Zyreio’s men and Kynell’s. It was an unpopular job by any measure, earning the distrust of both parties and meriting reward only from Obsidian. Though occasionally followers of the Prysm would use their services, Kynell never officially sanctioned the dragons’ self-appointed role. Over time, the beasts grew bitter that Kynell dismissed and condemned their virtuous labors. They decided to take their pay for themselves—from the flesh of Kynell’s men and women. Such an outrage had never been done in all of Rhyvelad and punishment was swift. In righteous fury, Kynell robbed the offenders of their speech and cast them into the great subterranean caverns of Bar-norak. There their wings were effectively clipped as they drifted from cave to cave and rift to rift, forbidden from seeing the light of orbs until they repented of their heinous action. But they did not repent. Instead, they waited for the time when Obsidian would be powerful enough to release them. Sadly, the day of release of never came. Obsidian either forgot about its former employees or did not have the power to deliver them. So they continued to fly the deep shafts of the world, silently waiting for freedom.

It had taken Amarian a great deal of time and manpower to track down Bar-norak. It took even longer to discover a way inside. But eventually he managed both. Through the aid of Zyreio, he released one beast from its black imprisonment before closing off the entrance. He did not, after all, want an entire race of dragons. One was enough.

As he neared the yard behind the stables, he watched the handlers prepare the dragon for her flight. Ovna was fairly young for her kind: her grandsire had just cut his teeth when Kynell threw the dragons into Bar-Norak. Robbed as she was of speech, she had no way of communicating this to Amarian, nor did she care to. Rather, she seemed content to watch the men scurrying around her with brooding eyes that were slowly adjusting to the light. Like all dragons in those days, she was gritty black: the exact shade of the cavern walls of her prison. Her hide was not glorious nor particularly tough, but her reflexes were quicker than any beast aboveground in those days. They had been honed over a lifetime, for the vengeful dragons, not having anything else to do, frequently made war on each other in the dark.

Her tail flicked patiently, hoping to catch one of those amusing “men” beneath it. When the mood struck her, she used to lazily stretch out her long neck and nip at a passerby. Since her nips were often fatal, such a practice had not only decreased the number of her handlers but had increased their carelessness in strapping on the harness. Much to his annoyance, Amarian had almost fallen off during a test flight because of this haphazard treatment. Although he punished the neglectful handlers, he also realized that their service would not improve unless they could work without fear of sudden dismemberment or worse. So he had taken Ovna aside one day. Although no one in the camps or the castle knew exactly what happened in that interview, she rarely indulged in such playfulness again.

Today would be her first public appearance. In anticipation of his plan, Amarian had long ago sent out his bodyguard and the regiments he intended for the western front. Although they had left more than two months before, Ovna’s speed would put him there in two weeks’ time; he would arrive the same day as his troops. Then Commander Hull would make an appropriately grand entrance, sufficiently impressive to awe that idiot king and hopefully intimidate that troublesome general into submission. Amarian himself would take no satisfaction in the petty display: it was only a prelude to the main event. In a matter of days, Relgaré’s Cylini would be defeated—a task Ovna could accomplish all by herself—the king would die tragically in battle, and he, the grief-stricken commander, would assume control of the armies. A simple plot that would proceed without a hitch, especially if General Chiyo were also to disappear. That minor chore
would
be satisfying.

Ovna screeched in protest as the men tightened the straps, but refrained from attacking them. Meanwhile, the servant who had been packing the armor scurried into the yard and gave his package to the handlers for loading. Soon all would be ready. Amarian turned to his passenger.

“Isn’t this exciting, Captain?”

The chains scraped painfully on Gair’s already mangled flesh, but he tried not to let his voice show it. Instead, he watched the dragon with profound disgust. “What purpose does it serve to take me?”

“Perhaps I want the company.”

“I would be poor company for you. Why would you want a Prysmite breathing down your neck?”

Amarian laughed, involuntarily batting at the back of his neck. “We both know you’re harmless. Besides, what if Ovna wants a snack on the trip?”

Gair bit his lip; the man had a response for everything.

A handler appeared, dodging Ovna’s tail. “Darkness, your ride is prepared.”

“Then let’s go. I don’t want to keep the good king waiting.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Relgaré was irritable as he inspected his troops. The messenger had said his commander would be there by morning, but the hot autore orbs were by now beyond the horizon. He growled low in his throat: he had a strategy to consider and it did not involve Hull’s tardiness. The engineers had already finished the bridge, leaving the way into Cylini territory temptingly open. Now with the morning roll call of the officers almost finished, they had to plan for the next big attack before the Cylini used the bridge against them. Where was Hull?

A trumpet blared from the eastern watch, causing Relgaré to look automatically in that direction. A dark line had formed on the horizon and soon three regiments of fennels, humans, and Sentries came into view. By mid-morning, they would ford the river and reach the camp, but Relgaré sought Hull’s banner in vain. He asked a nearby officer if he could see the commander.

“No, my liege. Perhaps he has sent his troops on ahead.”

The king disagreed. Hull had said that he would be there in person: Relgaré intended to hold him to that commitment. Perhaps he was with the rear guard, or he had come another way. Just as he was about to allow his frustration and confusion to overflow into words, a screech pierced the air above them.

“Dragon! To the ballistae!”

Relgaré looked up to see a large, black dragon folding her wings for a dive. Dear Kynell, she was going to attack! He shouted hoarsely for the giant crossbows to fire, but before they could, he recognized the rider.

“No, wait! Call off the men! It’s Hull.”

At the last possible moment, Ovna pulled up from her plunge, fanned her wings, and drifted quietly to the ground. The men gave her a wide radius, purposely keeping the over-sized crossbows loaded. Relgaré approached as the dragon settled, ignoring the fact that she was eying him hungrily. His fury was such that, had she tried anything, he would have given her a worthy struggle.