Legacy of Kings (67 page)

The High King turned back to the Guardian. “You may refresh yourself while we confer.” He indicated the place where food and water had been stockpiled, against the leeward flank of a nearby dune. Not enough to sustain Salvator’s people for any length of time, but sufficient to tide them over if all their witches were killed in battle and they had to wait for a new supply line to be set up. A second canvas had been raised to keep the supplies cool, but it was little more than a token effort. In the full heat of day there would be little escape.

When the Guardian was out of earshot, Salvator turned back to the others. “I should join them,” he said quietly.

Favias’ breath was an indrawn hiss. “Majesty?”

“The gift of the queen is invisibility. Maybe her lair is right in front of them and yet they can’t see it. I may be able to.”

Ramirus drew in a deep breath. “Majesty, your immunity to the ikati power is mere theory right now. A good theory, perhaps and I am sure there is some truth to it but its parameters are completely unknown. While the odds are very good that if the Souleaters do break away from Kamala, they will head straight back to the place where both their lairs and their masters were last seen. The risk of you being in that place, with such a small company, is unthinkable.”

Salvator’s eyes narrowed. “Do you ask my people to suffer a risk that I myself am not willing to accept?”

Ramirus’ face was expressionless. “It is expediency, Majesty. Nothing more. This operation can function without the others; it cannot function without you.”

“So what do you suggest?” he asked, irritated by the callous rationality of his argument. “Other than standing here and wringing our hands that we’ve lost our quarry?” He saw Gwynofar about to speak and raised a hand to silence her. “Or staking my mother out as bait?”

He had argued with her about that tactic the night before.
I challenged the one in the Spinas,
Gwynofar had reminded him.
I can do the same thing in Jezalya.

I did not sanction that,
he’d responded.
I would have forbidden it.

But it worked, did it not?

Your life is too precious to be risked in such a reckless gambit.

And what if there is no other way, my son? What if all other methods fail us, and we simply cannot find this queen by other means? Will you still forbid it then?
When there was no response, she had pressed,
You say you are willing to die for this cause. Is my dedication worth less than yours?

Between gritted teeth he had muttered, As a last resort, then, I will consider it. But only as a last resort. When every other option has been exhausted. Not one second before that.

They were not at that point yet, he told himself. Not yet.

“There are two possibilities as I see them,” Favias said. “One, that she fled the area as soon as she saw trouble coming, or right after Siderea died. In which case she is now beyond our reach, unless we do something to call her back. Two, that she is hiding somewhere nearby. Maybe the sight and smell of another female scared her so badly that she’s just not going to come out until that scent is gone from the area.”

Shina said, “We can banish that.”

Salvator nodded. “Do so.”

She moved off to comply.

Ramirus said quietly, “There is a third possibility, which is that she is still here and still quite sane, and knows exactly what is going on. She may even have been watching this campaign play out, albeit from a safe distance.”

“You speak of her as if she were still highly intelligent,” Favias said. “But her human partner is dead now, and Colivar said that she would be even more vulnerable than the others because she had bonded to Siderea before her own mind was fully developed. He said that would make her even more dependent on her partner than the other Souleaters, and less stable once her partner died.”

“With all due respect for Colivar’s omniscience,” Ramirus said dryly, “let us not forget that was only speculation. What if he were mistaken? What if being nurtured from childhood by a mind like Siderea’s could affect the development of the Souleater’s own mental capacity? So that even after her human partner died, an echo of higher intelligence would remain? What then?”

In that case, Salvator thought, even baiting her would not work. She would see the trap for what it was and keep her distance from us.

Feeling the frustration that was welling up inside him about to reach the breaking point, he walked away from the others for a moment, just to get some space around him. The sense of futility in the air made him feel claustrophobic. Never has a campaign accomplished so much, he thought bitterly, and had it mean so little. If there had been a piece of furniture around that he could strike out at, or even a sizeable rock to kick, he would have vented some of his anger on it. But nothing other than sand was nearby, and kicking sand would just not be satisfying.

He thought of asking Gwynofar what she thought of all this, but her opinion didn’t really matter, did it? It was more important that he watch the western sky for something that might happen there. Like Kamala’s return. Or Colivar’s. Or that of the other Souleaters. Or maybe the spell that Ramirus had cast to hold off the tribal warriors would collapse, in which case he should be watching for signs of enemy soldiers approaching from that direction . . . .

He shook his head, aware that something was wrong but not sure what it was. Looking back at the others, he saw them all staring in the same direction he had been, as if something to the west of the camp had drawn their attention. But even though he looked back and squinted into the distance, he couldn’t make out what it was. He thought of asking Gwynofar what she thought, then realized that her input was not important. He needed to stay focused on things that really mattered.

But she had been standing with the others a minute ago.

It took all of his effort to make himself turn around. His mind might have decided that he needed to look for Gwynofar, but his body clearly didn’t agree. He was aware enough of the disparity that it lent new strength to his efforts, even as a new kind of fear took root in his soul.

She had left the base camp and was standing out on the empty plain, alone. She had picked up a spear along the way—no one was allowed to take a step outside the sheltered area without a weapon in hand—but it hung limp in her grasp, the shaft horizontal. Useless. She seemed to be staring at something in the sky. No. She was staring at nothing in the sky. Her eyes were turned upward, but he sensed that they were seeing nothing.

He followed her gaze. A dark shape seemed to come into focus that had not been there a moment before, and an odor filled the air that was cloyingly sweet, insufferably foul. Even before he could make out details of the creature, he knew what it was. What it must be.

A Souleater.

It was plummeting down at her from a bright, clear sky, its long talons extended, like a hawk about to snatch up a field mouse. Though Gwynofar’s face was turned up toward it, he knew with sickening certainty that she did not see it at all—at least not in any conscious sense—and that she could not act to save herself.

He yelled at her as he sprinted across the sand, a sound that might have been meant to be her name but that came out of his mouth as an inarticulate cry of despair. He grabbed up a spear as he ran, knowing even as he did so that he was going to be too late. The thing was too close—it was coming down too fast—and she was too far away. For the first time in his life he wished that he were a witch, so that he might sacrifice his life’s own essence to increase his speed. But all he had was prayer, so he offered it.

Let this be my sacrifice, not hers!

Great jeweled wings filled the sky overhead as he dove the last couple of feet, transforming sky and sand into a mad cacophony of color. He reached Gwynofar even as the talons were about to close on her head and tackled her down to the ground, desperately trying to brace his spear in some kind of defensive position. She was as limp as a rag doll and offered no resistance. It seemed that he could feel a breeze upon his back as the great talons snapped shut just inches from his skin, and the ikati screamed in rage so loudly that it made his ears ring. Could the others hear it too? Or were they still entranced by the creature’ s power as he had been, and blind to it presence?

Rolling over on his back, he thrust the spear upward with both hands, not even caring where his target was at that moment, just trying to win himself some room to maneuver. The mass of the great body overhead seemed to blot out the sun, and its musky-sweet scent filled his lungs like noxious smoke. He had to fight the urge to gag as he struggled to get to his feet, while staying near enough to his fallen mother to protect her.

Where were the others? Were they going to help? Even if they couldn’t see the creature he was fighting, surely they could see that he was engaged in combat with something, and maybe fire their weapons into the space it so clearly occupied. But even as he gripped his spear in both hands and braced himself to strike at the creature the moment it came within range, he knew with a sense of utter despair that the queen’s power didn’t work that way. The others wouldn’t be able to help him because their attention was fixed on other things. Tribesmen attacking. Souleaters returning. Maybe even a sandstorm moving in. Each of her mesmerized victims would come up with his own reason for not looking in this direction, without ever realizing he was not doing so.

Salvator was on his own.

The Souleater’s great wings beat the air mere yards overhead, whipping the sand about him into a frenzy. His hair blew wildly across his face as he feinted with the long spear to keep her at a distance, trying desperately to remember the key facts of Souleater anatomy, to figure out where to strike. The body of this one was longer and thinner than the ones in the diagrams Favias had shown him, and a few of the landmarks he’d been told to look for, to locate major organs, were absent. But he knew he might only get one good shot at her, so he had to make it count.

Suddenly she lunged down at him with her great triangular head, teeth bared. He thrust the spear forward aggressively, so that she would have to impale herself on its point in order to reach him. She pulled back, frustrated, and great jaws snapped shut several feet short of his head. She was so close now that he could taste her breath on his tongue, sickening sweetness with an aftertaste of decay. The great black eyes reflected his own sweat-streaked face back at him in its thousand uniform facets, and he realized suddenly that if he moved quickly enough, he might be able to blind her before she withdrew. With a muttered prayer on his breath he angled his spear—

—And pain exploded in his side without warning. He felt himself flying through the air, and he hit the ground with such force that it drove the breath from his body. For a moment the entire world went red; sand mixed with blood in his throat, and he tried to cough it all up, but the motion sent a sharp pain lancing through his chest. Favias’ voice seemed to ring in his head, admonishing him for his carelessness.
They fight with their tails. Don’t underestimate their reach.

Blinking against the pain, he struggled to get an elbow under him, to lever his way back onto his feet. He could feel a dent in the side of his armor where the sheer force of the Souleater’s blow had caved in the steel; if they’d been fighting on anything other than sand, he would probably be dead now. Every breath he drew was accompanied by a stabbing pain, and he was sure that one or more of his ribs had been broken. But he couldn’t let it end like this. Not after all they had gone through to get this far. He could not let this creature win.

Now his vision was becoming clear enough that he could see his spear lying on the ground to one side of him; he reached out to grab it. But razor-sharp talons suddenly closed about him from behind, locking him in an inexorable vice as they jerked him upward. The pain was so intense that for a moment it blinded him; by the time he could see again, the ground was far beneath them, and his dazed vision could not make out any sign of either city or camp nearby.

The Souleater’s talons were like bars of iron around his chest; surely, if Salvator had not been wearing a solid steel cuirass, he would have been crushed to death. As it was, he could hear the ominous creak of steel as the powerful talons tightened, struggling to finish the job. And to his horror he could feel the cuirass begin to give way, surrendering at last to the crushing grip. Bones snapped along one side of his ribcage, sending spears of pain lancing through his side and very nearly driving him into unconsciousness.

I will not die like this!
he raged, struggling for every breath. Shadows were closing in about his field of vision. Black spots danced before him as blood seeped steadily into his lungs. Every indrawn breath was agony.
I will not die like prey!

The only weapon he had on him was a short sword edged with Souleater blades, and he knew that even if he could get it out of its sheath, he could not reach far enough to strike at any vital target. But his hand closed about its grip nonetheless, nails biting into the leather binding as spasms of pain wracked his flesh. He would not pass out, he told himself. He would not give up. He would not stop fighting until the moment that God himself collected his soul from his body, so that all the Souleater carried away was empty flesh . . . .

Delirium was closing in on him now, disjointed visions flashing in and out of existence all around him. He saw figures from one of Favias’ anatomical charts flying past him, with Souleater vulnerabilities marked in red ink and meticulously labeled.
Look
. Favias’ voice was a whisper in his ear.
The artery inside the leg. It is vulnerable at the joint. Slice it open and the result will be as deadly to a Souleater as a cut to the femoral artery would be to a man.

He tried to twist about in the ikati’s grip so he could locate the spot, but just then the talons tightened about his chest, driving out the last of his air and causing fresh pain to explode in his chest. His heart labored as it struggled to push enough blood through his constricted veins to keep him alive.
Blessed Destroyer,
he prayed desperately,
give me strength to finish this one task before I die, I beg You. Let me be the vehicle by which You banish this plague from the earth.