Breaking the Gloaming (26 page)

Wren rubbed his eyes, trying to think. Suddenly he understood. 

The Gloaming had been blown open. This was Tryst. 

The fallen prince was at the vanguard, fighting with his unique and brutal elegance. The other men followed him, filling the path he left behind.

Wren saw another face he knew, Ulysses. He would have thought he was dreaming if his head wasn’t pounding so hard. He continued backing away from the fight, but Tryst was butchering too fast in his direction. 

Ulysses was the only man wearing armor. He formed lines with the men in Tryst’s wake. 

The Sunans began to push into them. They formed tight ranks, an impenetrable wall. Their spears outreached these men’s weapons. Wren realized they mostly held bones or other crude bludgeons. The Sunans arriving fresh to the fight would eviscerate them.

Ulysses must have seen it coming. The old knight yelled out something that pulled the ragged men closer. They pulled back to the base of the cliff, forming a tight knot there.

Wren knelt to try to collect himself. He found a spear, helm, and shield among the debris scattered before him on the ground. He put them on without much thought. He looked up and moved toward the fight.

He glided along with the Sunan men streaming toward Tryst and the others. Tryst was a blur of black and steel pressing forward along the cliff. He had led his men to the point where the rock met the southern wall of Valemidas. 

But the others from the Gloaming were not keeping up with him. Tryst was pushing ahead, leaving them behind under Ulysses’s command. Sunan warriors flooded into the gap between them, isolating Tryst below the wall. They began to close in on him, and Wren joined the surge.

Suddenly a salvo of arrows hit like a wave. Many men around Wren fell. The Sunans still standing raised their shields overhead. 

Archers lined the wall above. Tryst had dragged these men into almost point-blank range, but they did not retreat. Some of them kept an eye on the ramparts and shouted something when the rounds of arrows came. The Sunan shields were heavy and thick. They held firm against the arrows.

The Sunans continued closing in on Tryst. He was in constant motion, his sword whirling to deflect spears and gut the men with their shields raised. But there were too many Sunans. They began to overwhelm him.

The resolve on Tryst’s face touched something inside Wren. This man was fighting for Valemidas while Wren watched in Sunan arms. He would not let a prince of Valemidas, not even Tryst, go down alone. 

Wren moved closer. A Sunan warrior pulled back his spear to hurl it at Tryst. Wren plunged his spear into the man’s back. As the man fell, Wren grabbed his spear and stabbed the next man between Tryst and him. 

He charged to Tryst’s side, and then the Sunans knew. 

Tryst caught his eyes for an instant. There was no emotion there. The fallen prince and Wren fought side by side. Wren just caused confusion, trying to duck and block the blows coming at him. Tryst took glancing blows, but he killed man after man with rapid efficiency. 

Ulysses broke through a moment later. “Hold with us here!” The knight shouted to Tryst.

Tryst shook his head. “Hold my back. I press on.”  

The fallen prince charged forward again, seemingly oblivious to the shallow wounds multiplying on his body. 

“Ulysses!” Wren ripped off his helm. The knight’s eyes opened wide when he saw him.

“Keep him alive!” Ulysses commanded, pointing to Tryst. “Our knights are coming!” He lifted his sword to catch the attention of the men around him. No more than fifty were still standing. 

“Protect your Lord!” Ulysses yelled and charged after Tryst. 

Wren followed, sure that he was living his final minutes. People always said it was better to die serving your nation than to live as a slave to foreigners. Wren had his doubts, as he thought of the lifeless bodies at his feet. He preferred to live. He pulled on his helm and hoped that Ulysses was right about the knights.

The fighting grew more intense. They were pinned against the wall. The Sunans were a fist clenching around them. Tryst and his men fought on, holding against warriors who had spent their lives training for this battle. But they could not stand much longer. The Sunans were blocking most of the arrows. Even Tryst seemed to be tiring, gaining mere inches with each assault into their phalanx.

Wren stayed close to him, mostly picking up the spears of dead Sunans and hurling them at anyone who moved. He was sure he had saved Tryst’s life a couple times. Tryst had saved his life more times than he could count. 

Only two dozen of Tryst’s men were still alive when the knights exploded into the fight. On horseback, fully armed, the knights plowed through the Sunans. A few horses went down to Sunan spears, but in moments the Valemidans had formed a protective ring around Tryst and the others.

Wren saw Jon and almost wept. His brother was the first to reach Tryst, who took Jon’s hand and leapt up onto his horse. Other knights hauled up Wren, Ulysses, and the other survivors. 

They turned back and galloped along the wall. The archers helped give them cover. The Sunans began to flee.

Tryst had led them nearly all the way to the wall’s southwest corner. Once they rounded it, the path to the gate was clear.

Chapter 27

SIGNS OF A RENEWED LIFE

“Great ambition is the passion
 

of a great character.
 

Those endowed with it may
 

perform very good or very bad acts.
 

All depends on the principles

which direct them.”

I had sent my best men riding out with the dawn. Our knights had smashed into the waking Sunans in two formations. Pikeli and Jacodin led the first, charging straight at the Sunan king. Jon led the other group along the wall to rescue Ulysses, Tryst, and whoever was with them.
 

Ravien had been right about everything. The explosion had made me stagger even on the city’s wall. The men from the Gloaming had emerged from the cliff and fought with order and discipline, as if they had been training for this. The Sunans had not expected any of it, but their warriors recovered quickly. They brought down maybe a hundred of our best, but between Tryst’s surprise force, the arrows, and the knights, we had killed maybe two thousand before the morning was over.
 

Now I watched my knights returning below me, careening around the tower at the southwest corner of the wall. Their powerful horses churned up the snow-lined ground. Jon was in the front, magnificent in his gleaming armor. Tryst rode with him. The Sunans were retreating toward the shore, out of arrow range again.

I turned toward the palace. I wanted to see Tryst.

*
*
*

I had been ready to die. It would have been a good death.
 

But it was nice to see Jon again. He played the knight as I had always known he could. He had saved me.

Now I sat behind him on the back of a horse, galloping through the Valemidas gate. This was not how I had once envisioned returning to the city, but I did not care about that anymore. I lived another day, bruised and bloody and alive.

We rode fast down the prince’s road. People were lining it, cheering. The road was packed full of tents and supplies. The city was entrenched for a siege. I never liked sieges. There was little glory in them.
 

The central plaza was mostly clear. It looked like an open training field, under the great white tree. The scarred letters on the tree were ugly. I had done that.

The horse slowed as it climbed the stairs. Jon and I dismounted at the top. He looked at me with obvious concern.

“Welcome back.” He had a great smile, hiding whatever was underneath it.
 

When I did not answer, his smile faded. “We will find help for your wounds now.”
 

He pulled my arm over his shoulder, supporting my weight. As we walked together into the palace, Jon sent a few servants running to fetch help. We followed one of them to a large room nearby. It was the archives. I had been here rarely, but I saw now it was a beautiful room. Morning light spilled in dazzling color through the high, stained-glass windows.

Jon laid me down on a cot that was prepared. This would serve as the war hospital, I realized. There were dozens of cots spread throughout.
 

A small, middle-aged man showed up at my side. He was the type who would not last long in the Gloaming. Good thing for him the Gloaming was broken now. My city would not work with a hole in the wall.
 

The little man poked and prodded my body. He inspected every wound as if it were a treasure. If they were treasures, I was a rich man.
 

I winced as the man poured some sharp smelling liquid over a gash on my side. He seemed oblivious to my pain.

“He will heal in no time,” the little healer was saying to Jon. I found it amusing that he did not speak to me. “These wounds, there are so many of them, but they are all shallow. I will stitch up the few that need it, but it is a miracle that he suffered no serious harm.”

He sounded surprised. I guessed he had never seen me fight with Zarathus. The blade always protected me. I realized I was still holding it beside me on the cot.

The little man was looking at me. “Would you like to numb the pain?” he asked.

I sat up. “A glass of wine. Something rich and dark and red. But do not let my pain keep you from your work.”

Jon laughed at that.
 

The light outside told me it was morning, but my body told me it was almost time for sleep. A servant ran off to retrieve the wine. When the servant came back, he whispered something to Jon. Jon told me the battle was quiet outside the walls after the morning’s victory, but duty required him to be elsewhere. He said he was delighted to see me, and that he wanted to talk more. I believed him. He was an honest man, even if he was hiding something.

Soon after he left, my sisters arrived.

“Tryst!” Their voices blended together.
 

Ravien was beautiful, so dark. Lorien was pregnant, and glorious. Ulysses had told me that. I wondered if the old knight had lived. Surely he had—that man had survived worse.

The little healer asked for quiet as he began to sew my wounds together. At least the wine would dull the pain.
 

Ravien looked concerned while the little man worked. Lorien wore her composed face, the one that might have joy or hatred lurking underneath. I could never tell.

After the little man finished and left, Ravien kneeled close to me on the cot. She took my face in her hands. I loved the feel of her hands. They were so delicate but strong.

“Two things, Tryst,” she was saying, “I want you to hear two things.” There was uncertainty in her voice. That was unusual.

“One,” she held up a finger, her other hand still on my cheek. “Our father would be proud of you. Two,” she held up another finger, “you are now a father.”

“Mailyn gave birth to a son,” Lorien added. “His name is Trystan.”

Their words began to sink in, to reach deep into me. I understood the words and the name. They had power. Unlike anything in months or a lifetime, they took hold of something in my chest and would not let go. I tried to push back, to make the words let go. Their grip was unmoving, unforgiving.

I took another sip of wine, trying to pretend what I heard did not matter. But it mattered.

I had a son, a boy, a legacy. My father, the man I poisoned, would be proud of me. My sisters said so. I was a pebble tumbling in the waves of these thoughts.

“A son?” I asked.

“A newborn son!” Lorien replied. “Born just yesterday. Mailyn picked his name, after his father.”

“I assumed you would rather forget about me.” I looked into Lorien’s eyes. She seemed tired. “I know I did things you and others hated. I would say I regret them, but it feels like a different man did those things.” My hand tightened around the hilt of my sword. Maybe a different man had done those things, but we shared this body.

“I would like to see my son, Trystan.” Saying his name summoned a deep emotion, something like joy.

“Yes, of course.” Lorien smiled.
 

Ravien’s stare remained fixed on me. “What happened to you, Tryst?”
 

I thought about the question for a while. It was a hard question. Rays of light poured through the high arched windows. They shone on my sisters and me. I could see the motes of dust sparkling. They drifted aimlessly with the subtle shifts of air.

“I let go,” I eventually said, watching the sparkling dust. Only when the words left my lips did I understand the power of their truth. “I let go of everything, even my desire to live.”
 

I turned to Ravien. Her hair was like polished onyx in the light, her face like a diamond. “An Icarian could have killed me once,” I told her, “but then he killed himself. Men could have despised me, but they loved me. The more I let go, the more I gained. The men’s love gave me a duty to be their leader, so I was. I did not lead because I wanted to, but because that’s where the winds of fate led me. Most of them are dead now. All I want is a good death.”

Neither of my sisters spoke then. It was a beautiful, quiet moment. The light bathed us and sealed a long loop, linking the present back to a serene memory of our childhood.
 

Andor walked in a moment later. Ulysses, Justus, and Ryn were with him. Justus and Ryn stood beside each other as if they were now allies. Ulysses wore a bandage around his head as casually as a hat. It suited him.

The prince’s face was gentle. I could still see traces of the Gloaming in him, traces I now understood. I realized then that the place had hurt him more than it had hurt me.
 

I stood to greet him, and everyone tensed. I was holding my sword, Zarathus. But it was his sword. I bowed, then held it out to him, hilt first.

“You left this behind.”

He stepped around the sword and embraced me.