Golden Tide (Song of the Aura, Book Four) (8 page)

Hanging his head, Lauro gritted his teeth to keep himself from weeping. Defeat, at the hands of these savages, was
not
what he had imagined his end to be. Was he to fail after all, as the Brown Aura’s book had said?

A loud
CRACK
ing made him jerk his head back painfully. Something was behind him, but for all his neck-twisting he could only catch glimpses of green light and the vague impression of cracking stone. What was happening?

The noise and light stopped as soon as they had begun, leaving no trace behind. Almost so quietly that Lauro did not notice, a dark-cloaked shape stalked around the stone that held him, turned, and stared up at where he hung, a slight smile curling his cruel features.

He. The nymph on the tortured throne. The arrogance in his eyes could only belong to a king. For a long time the two stared at each other; prince and king, man and nymph; enemies from opposite ends of the world. The hooded M’tant was first to break the silence.

“
My daughter does her duty well, Openlander.”
Daughter? He must mean the red-haired girl,
Lauro realized. The nymph continued. “Feel no shame at your failure. She is cursed, but she is… useful, too. I will feast well tonight, will I not?” A grim, silent laugh shook his broad shoulders.

“
You’ll feast in the Blaze,” Lauro snarled, so angry he would have spit, had he not felt afraid as well. That only increased the nymph’s bleak mirth, though his accent-laden words bore no sign of humor.

“
So assured… so stubborn… you are a fool.” Suddenly a long, jaggedly-curved black blade was at Lauro’s throat. “Because of your kind,” the nymph hissed, “We M’tant are driven into the heart of Mortenhine… your ‘Blackwood.’ You drive the beasts of Pit and the Golden Ones before you, heedless of us. Us! We who hunt your children in the night! We who fill your stories with terror at the very mention of our name! You are all fools, you humans… almost as foolish as the Openlander nymphs. The Lost. The Forsakers. Hah!” The nymph whirled away, missing Lauro’s eye with his sword by a hairsbreadth.

“
Who are you, nymph?” the prince asked callously. If this madman was going to kill him anyway, he had no need of politeness.

“
They call me Tannarch,” came a low murmur. The nymph still kept his back to Lauro. “Tannarch. King of the Wood. Lord of Mortenhine. But would you know it? Bah. Openlanders are fools.” There was something familiar about the Tannarch, Lauro realized… more than having seen him before in a dream, he recognized the smell of despair on the nymph. It mimicked that of the cleric’s. Were all these people in a walking death? Was their despair the reason for their violence? Their cannibalism?

“
I… I wish no harm on your people,” Lauro said, forcing down his pride. “I wish only to pass through the Blackwood. I seek… I seek something beyond it that may save my homeland, and yours, too.”

“
Is that why you have killed on the Great Steps? Is that why you have shed blood under my very eyes, Openlander?” The Tannarch whirled around. “Idiot. Stay silent. I will not let my people devour you, as they should.”

Unbidden hope rose in Lauro’s heart. “You will spare me?”

“
No.”

“
What in the Blazes will you
do
with me, then?” Lauro resisted the urge to try and rip himself free of the stone. He knew it would do no good.

“
I will…” the Tannarch paused, then grinned devilishly. The expression froze the prince’s gut. It was like statue smiling, totally devoid of emotion. “I will kill you, in front of all my people. They will know that I am King of the Wood, and you are a fool who has died for his mistakes. M’tant serve no one! Not the Darkness, and not the Light! We are greater than
both!
Fool!”

He’s crazy… blasted mad…
Lauro thought. Still rambling, the Tannarch swung his sword about in great swooping circles, talking of bloody deeds done at midnight, of oaths to the Creator, broken, and oaths to demons, abandoned and shirked. Lauro cringed but said nothing as the black blade swept ever closer, kept from slicing his flesh open by mere chance. Finally the Tannarch seemed burnt out, and panting from his speech, shoved his blade back into its sheath with a flourish.

“
Farewell, Fool,” the nymph smirked, then turned and walked away, straight at the wall in front of Lauro, opposite the place where he had entered before. His hand waved dismissively, and with a shuddering shriek, the wall cracked open, spilling green light into the prison as the Tannarch paused in the gap. “You will have enough air to live on until my
Segrethe
come for you, Openlander. Then we will see each other one last time… and you will die.”

As the crack closed behind the Tannarch, Lauro glared at the flickering torches. That air would barely last him.
Traveller… All Aura… Creator… is this how it all ends?

With a resigned sigh, the prince let his eyes slip closed. He had failed. All his plotting to escape fate… it had done him no good except to make him fail quicker.

No.

Lauro did not open his eyes, but he stiffened and perked up his ears. He could have sworn someone had whispered to him… spoken into his head.

No? That was what it had said. Was he wrong, then?

He had read Wanderwillow’s book, and he had seen his own fate on the pages. Letting Gribly run off to save Elia, and taking on the quest to find the Red Aura himself should have broken that fate. He had no assurance of success, of course, as he would have had if he had followed the book’s path for him… but he had broken free, at long last, of others’ plans for him.

Or had he? Perhaps he had not changed fate at all…

But if that were so, he would not die here. If that were so…

Something
whisked
in front of him in the darkness. He heard a series of small sizzles as every torch in the cell was put out, one by one.
Impossible.
He had not regained his Sky Striding, not yet, and that left only one other alternative.

I will not die today.
Lauro’s head jerked up again, and his eyes shot open. The chamber was pitch-black; not a single light shone. Fate was playing tricks on him again.

“
Are you here to save me, or end me?” he shouted into the darkness. His voice bounced off the walls, echoing around him again and again, until it died away completely. For a minute or more, no one answered.

“
That depends,” said a voice, somewhere in front of him. “My father will kill you, if he gets the chance. But I am not so sure.” Lauro did not know whether to cringe or laugh. It was the Tannarch’s daughter… the red-haired nymph girl who had captured him twice.

“
Who
are
you?” he forced out the question. No one had ever beaten him so easily as she.

“
My name is Avarine.”
Avarine.
It fit the image he had of her. Despite himself, Lauro smiled. “Tell me
your
name, Openlander. Tell my your story, and I may let you live. If it pleases me, I will help you escape.” Something cold and sharp pressed against Lauro’s heart, near where the wooden hawk hung around his neck. “Displease me, and I will disappear again, and the fool who calls himself Tannarch will cut your throat, spilling your blood on the stones of Mortenhine.”

Lauro knew he should have been afraid. But here was his
chance!
Fate had played him false, but he was unbeatable now. His face burned with excitement. Whenever he needed it most, the Aura always sent help: first Gribly, then Elia, now this Avarine. Despite the jeopardy he was in, the prince let out a slow, confident smile in the dark.

“
I am Lauro Vale,” he told his unseen captor, “Prince of Vastion, Sky Strider of the Southern Kingdom and Heir to the Wind Throne. This is my tale, and if you do not believe it, then Sheolus take you…”

Karanel Winter paced back and forth across the stone floor of the dalheim’s highest chamber. Sweat beaded on her face, and occasionally dripped down her neck to wet the top of her mail shirt. Women only fought in Vastion’s army if they could Stride, and luckily the captain of the dalheim’s garrison had kept a few sets of gear for a Windmaster such as herself.

The captain. Karanel walked to the window and looked out silently. It was too quiet. The grass was burnt and muddied for a good space around the back of the dalheim’s keep, but there were no enemies she could see. She slapped her gauntleted palm down on the stone, so hard it hurt through the glove. Damnable golems.

A loud knock on her door made Karanel jump. She kept looking out the window, and called, “Come in, Captain. It’s your keep, after all.”

“
W… Windmaster.” Karanel spun to face the intruder- this was not the captain. This was a red-faced, weepy boy with a once-shiny silver cap, now dulled, with two long wings on the sides. A messenger. A Wind Strider of only minimum ability, used for running great distances faster than a horse could.

“
Have the warnings been delivered? Will the King know of our plight? Where is Captain Yotun?” The questions poured out too fast for her to stop. Suddenly she felt more afraid than she had since Vail died.

“
He…” the messenger shifted his feet, blinking through what might have been tears… or sweat. “He gave himself to the Aura. To protect us. Me an’ Ran. We only got through because of him.”

“
FOOL!” Karanel could keep it in no longer. The poor lad almost jumped out of his skin at her shout, trying to cower and salute and stand straight all at the same time.

“
I… I… I’m sorry…”

“
No!” the Windmaster spat, “Not you.” She turned away as the lad led out an audible sigh of relief. “Yotun. Why did he go with you? Fool… He should have stayed… He should have known…” suddenly she was on the point of tears herself, pacing and pounding her fist into her hand again and again.
War is no place for a woman,
her mother had said. Karanel knew she’d been right, now… but not for the reason she’d thought as a girl.

“
I…” the messenger gulped behind her, and she spun to look at him.

“
What more?”

“
He… he gave me this,” the messenger managed, steeping hesitantly forward and handing her a wrinkled piece of yellowed parchment with blood in the corner. When she took it from him, he cringed. Karanel didn’t blame him. She had not done much to earn an easygoing reputation with the dalheim garrison these past weeks.

Nodding her thanks, she quickly perused the paper. A smile broke her face, once, but she quickly hid it behind a mask of controlled anger. Yotun. He’d known her only a matter of days, and yet… Blast it. Why must he have been the one to die first?
Idiot men. All the same, no matter their age.

The letter was short and to-the-point… mostly. She was to take command of the dalheim in the event of Yotun’s death. Normally his Second, Winden, would have… but Winden was dead, too.

“
So,” she said finally, “it seems I rule the dalheim now… or what is left of it.”

The messenger-boy nodded as if he had thought it would be so. She glanced at him, and felt a stab of pity. He was just about Vail’s age. She sighed. War. Vastion had thought itself ready… but it had not been. The army that had come had laid siege to the small fortress since the beginning, but more than one army had marched past them, deeper into Vastion. She knew there were other dalheimi, other lords and garrisons meant to protect the kingdom… but were they enough?

It was not her fight, not now. Her fight was to survive, and to pull the garrison through with her. “So be it,” she whispered.

“
Ah… Captain Karanel?” It was the messenger again. “What are your orders sir… er, my lady?”

“
The golems have disappeared for too long,” she told him. “They may be burrowing beneath us. If they are, we can’t help it. But if they are, we have only hours at most to deal their encamped forces a blow so hard it could break the entire siege. Risky, but possible. Run to the stables for me, and…”

A deep rumble shook the dalheim’s keep. Karanel stumbled but kept her balance; the messenger hopped from foot to foot as if he was standing on hot coals, but he was less affected.
So soon?
She thought. But she could not lose hope. If only-