The Warrior King (Book 4) (14 page)

They could barely spare the time, but he found himself wondering if he could stop at Kallia’s palace to bathe and then have her servants rub the knots out of his muscles before he set out for yet another grueling journey, this one across the battlefield that had become the khalifates.

“By the Mountain Brother, no,” she said, sounding shocked. “I don’t want to go to Balsalom. All those people . . . no, I don’t need any rest. I’m feeling better than I have in days. Let’s keep flying.”

So they continued throughout the day, griffin and rider growing stronger as they flew north, keeping several miles to the west of Balsalom, which remained a golden ring of walls and towers in the distance. From there, they entered the lands of Cercia. They stopped only once, and this was for Talon to tear into a flock of goats. He devoured one entire animal himself, and Daria shared another, eating what seemed an entire haunch raw. Markal declined his share.

As they continued east, they caught signs of the war. The villages of eastern Cercia lay in ruins, their fields burned, their irrigation dams torn down, and the productive farmland downstream flooded. Clusters of refugees streamed either east or west on the road, and here and there they saw armies on the march. From their height atop the griffin, it was difficult to tell friend from foe, but King Whelan’s forces seemed to control the Tothian Way itself, while the countryside and cities of the central and eastern khalifates remained in the control of the dark wizard. The combined armies of Eriscoba and the western khalifates had bypassed them to cut straight toward the gates of Veyre itself, hoping to destroy the dark wizard before he could recover from his failed invasion of the Free Kingdoms.

But to Markal’s worried eye, it seemed that Whelan’s long supply chains were in danger of getting cut off by the enemy. The dark wizard may have lost much of his strength, but he still possessed several competent, ruthless generals such as Pasha Ismail, who had managed to control revolt in their lands and were sending armies to relieve Veyre.

Markal, Daria, and the griffin passed another night, this one atop a ruined tower in Chalfea near the town of Yoth. The wizard was exhausted, but he kept watch so they wouldn’t be caught unaware by brigands or enemy soldiers. In the middle of the night he was staring at the comet and fighting to stay awake when Daria stirred nearby.

“My watch,” she said. “Get some rest, friend.”

“You need your strength. You can’t fly all day without a good night of sleep.”

“And I’ve had one. I don’t need any more.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, dubious.

“I feel better now, Talebearer. I could travel day and night if I had to. I’m half inclined to leave you with King Whelan and fly back to Marrabat to look for Darik.”

“Don’t do that. You’re too important to the war.”

She laughed, a high, happy sound that warmed his old heart, and patted his hand. “Don’t sound so worried. I can’t cross that desert again only because my heart wants to. I know what must be done—I’ll fly to the mountains to prepare our people for another struggle. Darik can look for me there.”

“I’m sure he will come find you as soon as he can.”

“I know he will. He loves me.”

The boy had natural magic flowing in his body, and Markal was reluctant to give him up as an apprentice. But it grew increasingly clear that Darik would never be a true wizard. He didn’t have the desire, and without the desire, the discipline would forever be left wanting. But neither would he become a Knight Temperate, as Whelan hoped. It seemed that Darik was choosing a different path than either of his former companions desired.

“That’s a deep sigh,” Daria said.

“Did I do that out loud?” He considered. “You mother would say that Darik can never be a true griffin rider. His blood is too thin, he doesn’t have your balance and fearlessness in the air. He will smell wrong to the griffins.”

“She has said all of those things, and more,” Daria admitted. “But I don’t believe them, and neither do you.”

“How can you be sure?”

“You don’t fool me, my friend. Darik thinks you’ve tried to keep us apart, but I know you really brought us together. Narud’s head is filled with the nonsense of whatever animal form he most recently assumed, but you knew full well what would happen when you had me bathe in front of Darik, and then left us alone. You knew that I would suggest that Darik marry me and he would do it too.”

Markal shrugged, embarrassed. “I’m a sentimental old fool.”

“I was so excited—once I felt better, I mean.” A hint of worry entered her voice. “I hope I didn’t pressure him.”

“Darik wanted it, believe me.” Markal hesitated. “So the two of you . . . you got married after the manner of your people?”

This time it was Daria who let out a long, weary sigh. “No, we never did. We tried! But that girl interrupted us. The king’s daughter. I don’t think she understood or maybe she would have waited until we were done.”

“I’m sure she would have interrupted anyway. Sofiana’s mind is turned to whatever Sofiana wants at that moment. And she’s jealous of Darik.”

“Jealous?” Daria shook her head. “I don’t understand this word very well. Sofiana is so young, I didn’t think . . . do you mean she wants Darik for herself?”

“No, nothing like,” he said quickly. “It’s akin to the jealousy one sibling has for another when they are fighting for their father’s attention.”

“Oh yes, I understand. Like two chicks competing to swallow the same regurgitated rabbit.”

“Um, yes. A little bit like that. Sofiana grew up with two fathers, and no father at all.”

This only confused Daria more, and since Markal didn’t see the harm in sharing what had happened, he explained. Whelan had fallen in love with his brother Daniel’s wife, and then consummated an illicit relationship with her. Sofiana was Whelan’s child, but had been raised as much by Daniel. The brothers had suffered a falling out over the incident that had lasted for several years, but it had never altered their shared affection for the girl.

After Markal finished, Daria fell silent, and he listened carefully to her breathing, thinking that she’d fallen back asleep. But then she cleared her throat. “I may die in this war, Markal, but I pray the Mountain Brother grant me my desire before I fall.”

“Don’t say that. You’re strong—you have as good a chance to survive as anyone.”

“But if I do fall,” she insisted, “I must marry Darik first. I won’t die without taking him as my mate. That would be too cruel.”

#

Daria’s superior eyesight spotted King Whelan’s encampment from several miles away, and she brought Talon diving down from above before Markal knew what had drawn her attention. He was holding on for dear life, the wind whipping at his face, and couldn’t get the young woman’s attention as he tried to warn her not to get too close to the encampment. Skittish archers might launch a hail of arrows before they realized she was no enemy.

But he needn’t have worried, as Daria seemed to have recognized this very threat. She swooped back and forth over the camp, just beyond arrow range. A handful of shafts launched in their direction, but none came close to reaching them. While they flew, Markal took the opportunity to inspect the king’s forces.

Whelan had seized a castle atop a hill overlooking the Tothian Way, but the bulk of the encampment stretched beyond the castle walls. The entire hillside was a sea of tents, men sparring, horses, wagons. From there, the army stretched east and west along the Way itself, and a second hill roughly a mile distant was the sight of construction, where hundreds of men were laboring to build a second fortification, this one of wood towers and trenches.

Daria kept circling as if to allow word to pass through the encampment before she brought them down, but after several minutes Markal began to wonder if she were not simply afraid of the sheer number of people below. She had battled ferociously at Sleptstock and Arvada earlier in the summer, but in the sky against dragons, dragon wasps, and their riders. Never down among the massed armies on the ground.

Markal pointed at the castle and told her to land atop the walls. The banner of Arvada, a gold tower against a white background, snapped from the highest tower, and armored figures on the wall-walk at the battlements shielded their eyes to study the griffin and its riders as they approached. Men went scrambling for cover as Talon screamed in for a landing, but no arrows came in their direction.

Daria dropped effortlessly from the back of the golden griffin, which gripped the stone with his talons, eying the men in the bailey and screaming. Markal struggled to dismount without being pitched off or knocked over the edge by the batting wings. Daria shoved her fingers into Talon’s feathers and ordered him to calm down.

When Markal was down, he stretched and groaned, and brushed away the hair and feathers. Two men came striding into the bailey below, one tall and muscular, the other barrel-chested with a thick, bushy beard and arms the size of Daria’s slender thighs. The tall man was King Whelan and the heavier man Hoffan, the former lord of Montcrag. The two men scaled the exterior staircase to the castle walls, then made their way around the battlements toward the newcomers.

Meanwhile, outside the walls, dozens of people came surging up to the edge of the stone curtain to stare up and jabber excitedly at the griffin on the walls. The tumult below only made both Talon and Daria more skittish. By the time Whelan arrived, it was all the young woman could do to keep her griffin from launching himself skyward.

Whelan and Daria exchanged greetings from a distance before the woman climbed back onto her mount and lifted skyward. She circled overhead, shouting her goodbyes to Markal. Then she sped off to the west, chased by the stares of an entire army.

Markal was sad to see her go.

He turned back to his friends, who were grinning as they came in to embrace him. Whelan had a tired, grim look about him. His gray eyes, always penetrating, now carried an extra wariness. The sun had tanned his skin, and he was more lean than he had been, which gave his nose an aquiline hook to it. He was still handsome, but in a severe, regal manner that belied the warm, generous person the wizard had come to know over the years.

Hoffan, on the other hand, seemed to be profiting from the war. The mountain lord certainly hadn’t been skipping meals, although much of what Markal initially took for fat was really thick muscles about his shoulders and upper arms. That barrel shape reminded Markal of the barbarian tribes who lived north of the Free Kingdoms, much of their blood evidently flowing in his veins.

“We shouldn’t be so happy to see you, old friend,” Hoffan said. “You never bring good news. It’s always one disaster after another. What catastrophe has befallen us this time?”

Whelan’s eyes ranged over the wizard. “Maybe this time is different.” But his expression said that he didn’t believe this at all.

And there was no use holding onto the bad news. Markal gave a grim shake of the head. “It’s about your brother Roderick.”

Whelan’s face fell. “Dead?”

“Worse than that.”

Chapter Fourteen

As the ravagers left Yoth, the screams of children clutching their cauterized stumps reached Roderick’s ears, while bereaved mothers wailed a long, terrible dirge for their crippled sons and daughters. The smell of blood and burning flesh lingered in Roderick’s nostrils. When they reached the road, Pradmort inclined his head slightly and let his horse fall a half-length behind Roderick’s.

An unspoken signal passed through the ravagers, and Roderick sensed a new deference from both the speaking ravagers and the mindless alike.

“Where to, my lord?” Pradmort asked.

Now I am the captain of these men. I will lead the undead to war.

“We cannot risk the roads, so we’ll ride across the countryside. The master is calling us, and the enemy will seek to harry and delay.”

#

Outwardly, Roderick was a snarling, demanding captain as they continued east. Inside, he writhed in torment, horrified beyond measure by his own actions. He killed without mercy or quarter, he burned fields and slaughtered livestock to deny aid to those who had been his allies. Once, he even tortured a young goat herder to extract information about the best pathway through a stretch of badlands ahead of them. When he had what he wanted, he threw the boy off a cliff and left his broken body lying in the dirt at the bottom to be eaten by scavengers. He’d have sooner hurled himself off the cliff instead.

Word of their passage must have spread, because soon they found themselves under attack from the direction of the Tothian Way. First came probing advances from fifty or sixty men mounted on camel or horse. These riders would engage briefly, then melt away when Roderick turned to give battle. Wary of a trap, he refused to give pursuit.

He sensed an alert mind on the other end of this threat. Someone familiar. It was his brother Whelan. And the attacks served to delay his ride, which allowed Whelan to muster larger and larger forces to engage him. Soon, he was facing assault by eighty or a hundred, then two hundred, then entire armies. Forces large enough to surround and destroy him. Every one of his men was worth two Knights Temperate or ten common soldiers, but soon he was facing these kinds of odds and worse. In one narrow escape, he rode over a stone bridge crossing the Arnor River to discover fifty pikemen bracing themselves, while in the distance a force of several hundred horsemen came racing down the plain to give reinforcements.