Obsidian (30 page)

“Yes, we heard the pitch change about an hour ago.”

An hour? Was that all it had been? Vancien wiped his brow and realized he was hungry. “Do you have any food?”

“I’ll get you some. But first, come with me.” Vancien felt a hand on his arm, leading him away from the other sounds. He heard a whispered “Here he is” and felt the hand let go. Had Relgaré been speaking to him?

Then another voice, the source of which Vancien could not see, said “Thank you.” He felt another hand on his arm, pushing him gently toward the dim shadow of a log. “Please, sit.”

The night was horribly dark and Vancien wanted badly to see who was talking to him. Instead, he had to settle for a desperate guess. “Kynell?” he breathed.

He felt the warm hand again, insisting that he sit. “Hello, Vance. I’m glad to see you made it safely.”

Vancien stared in the direction of the voice; it was so dark that all he could see of Kynell’s face was a shadowy outline. “What are you doing here?” he blurted out. “I thought you were with the soakers.”

“I will return to them shortly,” Kynell responded. “They need me more than you might think.”

“
I
need you.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

“I know. That’s why I have come to talk with you. Vance, surely you know that you and ‘Ian are very dear to me.”

Vancien, still struggling with his anger and guilt, remained quiet.

“There is much I would say to you, but there is not much time. You have both been my Advocates. But I will be the Advocate now. What I’m about to do is something you could never do.”

Vancien, assuming he was talking about defeating the Chasmites, quickly interrupted. “I know I’m not you. I am too. . .little. But I had hoped to be by your side.”

There was a touch of cheer in Kynell’s voice. “That’s where I want you to be. But the time of the Advocates has passed. This new age will be my own.”

Vancien forgot his guilt as hope leapt up inside of him. “Then why are we talking about this in the dark? We should be shouting it from the rooftops! Surely your age would be better than all the others.”

“It will.”

“And Zyreio will be defeated?”

Kynell’s voice was low. “He will.”

“You sound upset.”

There was a pause, then, “Zyreio was once my creature. I will not delight in his downfall, but neither will I grieve over it. Since you ask, I will say that something else troubles me. Something that is coming very soon.”

“What is it, Lord? Tell me, and I will do what I can to help.”

He felt Kynell lean close. “Vance, never forget that justice demands a penalty for every wrong deed.
I
demand this penalty. But the price is too high for my loved ones to pay it and survive.”

Unbidden, the memory of Verial’s hand in his came back to him. It was a hand he should never have touched. There was a need to reconcile Kynell’s words and that image, but he had no time to figure it out. He could already hear footsteps behind him. It was Relgaré. He had some dried meat and water, which he pushed into Vancien’s hands. “I am sorry to interrupt, Lord” he whispered to Kynell. “But if we are going to do this, we should do it now.”

Vancien nodded. There would be more time to talk later. For now, he wanted to get this done and over with. Eating the meat on the way, he hurried to Thelámos and mounted. After checking to make sure the gruel was still burning, he urged him to flight. Kynell’s words still buzzed in his head, but he could not make sense of them. It was not possible that every wrong deed could demand a penalty. No one could pay such a high price. And to whom would it be paid? People could not be parsed out based on their actions; that made things too complicated. Instead, they were judged by their allegiance, which affected their actions. After all, the spiritual world of Rhyvelad consisted of one very simple dynamic: followers of Zyreio went to the Chasm, followers of Kynell went to be with him. That was how justice worked, and the fact that it worked was spread out on the ground under Vancien like a writhing, twitching blanket.

The enemy camp was mobilizing. From the circles of light cast by the campfires, he could see soldiers being beaten and forced into ranks. The normal din of sound had been reduced to a low murmur, interrupted by staccato commands, usually followed by the crack of a whip. In many ways, this concentrated activity was more disturbing than the previous chaos. It meant that the mob was capable of being directed, which served to remind Vancien of who was doing the directing. He shuddered, trying not to question the wisdom of Chiyo’s plan.

Thelámos had reached the closest machine. He circled above it, hopefully far out of the enemy’s sight. Only then did it occur to Vancien that the fennels and Sentries should be able to spot him, even on a cloudy night. Were they all stationed away from the machines? He had no time to pursue the thought; a shout from the trees meant that Relgaré was attacking. He took advantage of the moment and urged Thelámos into a dive. The Ealatrophe responded, folding his wings and plummeting them both down to the trebuchet below. He pulled up just before they reached it, snagged it with his talons, then waited until Vancien plunged another arrow tip into the gruel. Thelámos gave a mighty yank, Vancien fixed the arrow on the nearest piece of timber he could find, and down it went with a magnificent groan. As it fell, Vancien spotted a catapult close by, its wheels and trappings illuminated by another campfire. Without thinking twice, he unslung the bow, dipped an arrow into the gruel, and let off a shot. His aim was true. The Chasmites, with their attention torn between the falling siege engine and the ground attack, barely even noticed it go up in flames.

Vancien could only indulge in a brief moment of satisfaction. No sooner was the trebuchet on its way down than he heard a chorus of twangs below him. With a shout, he urged Thelámos upward as a hail of arrows rushed their direction. They escaped unscathed, but it was only a matter of time before a chance arrow would hit its target. He decided to attempt one more machine and then head for Lascombe.

The last engine went down with little trouble. The night was so dark that the Chasmites had no idea where he was or when he was going to attack. There was another volley of arrows as the fourth machine crashed to the ground, but again, with no damage. If so much had not been at stake, Vancien might have enjoyed watching the big, lumbering devices fall. But there was no time for that. He had to return to the city.

The sounds of the battle were still going strong. He resisted the urge to go help; Chiyo would never forgive him if he lost Thelámos on such a foolish venture. They would be of limited assistance in close ground combat, anyway. Instead, knowing that it would give away his position, he urged the Ealatrophe to let out his sharpest cry. Now Relgaré would know the mission was accomplished and he could retreat. Then he turned west for the short flight between Obsidian’s army and the walls of Lascombe.

But Thelámos had not gone far in that direction when he gave a small, alarmed screech.

“What is it, Thelámos?” he asked in a low voice. The Ealatrophe dipped his wings to the north in response, looking pointedly at the ground to their right. Vancien followed his gaze. Thelámos’ sharp vision had picked up on what no one else, either in the city or in the woods, could see: a dark, quiet mass of troops moving across no-man’s land. They had already dug their way under the barrier wall and were entering the second line of defense.

__________

Early in the morning before Vancien’s night-time flight, Gair, Ragger, and Verial were close enough to the army’s southern edge to hear the Chasmites’ groaning. At Gair’s request, Ragger had led them to within an arrow-shot of their southern flank. Gair had hoped to do something with the engines themselves, but they were too far off. Hastening through the woods for a better view, they beheld the Obsidian army spread out before them like an ocean.

“It’s horrific.” Verial hissed.

Ragger had already drawn his blade and was watching the Chasmites intently. His eagerness did not pass unnoticed by Verial.

“What do you think you’re doing, primate?”

Ragger gave her a dismissive glance. “I’m preparing to make a difference, what else?”

Gair, too, had already loosened his sword in his scabbard. As he opened his mouth to tell Verial to dismount and go hide in the woods, she held up a hand in exasperation.

“You two aren’t honestly planning to fight the Chasmites, are you?”

Gair’s pulse was already starting to race. On the ground, his legs would not support him. But on the back of a voyoté, he planned on being invincible. Why must that woman be a hindrance to everything?

“I bet we could do some sort of damage.”

“Yes, but
look
at them. What can you do against that?”

She had a point. The Chasmites writhed with an unholy energy. In an effort to release that energy, they pounded and beat at each other. The blows, even those delivered by sharp blades, had no effect, except to make the receiver angry.

“Ragger,” Gair breathed, “I think this fight is beyond us. Come on, let’s see what else we can do.”

But Ragger was silent. When Gair turned to look for him, the munkke-trophe and the voyoté were gone. Only he and Verial remained hidden in the trees.

“Where did he go?”

Verial was no longer watching the Chasmites. Her eyes were fixed in the opposite direction, toward a spot of darkness at the base of a tree.

Gair’s own voyoté began shaking underneath him. Then it began whining so piteously that he dismounted to have a look at it. No sooner had he touched the ground than it, too, abandoned him for the safety of the trees.

“Verial, what’s going on?”

“They’re escaping, Gair,” she said, in an uncharacteristically worried tone, “and I think you should, too.”

“Escaping what? What could possibly. . .”

His voice trailed off as the dark spot at the base of a tree grew into the form of a man. He didn’t look like much—just a short fellow with a bit of a paunch and thinning hair—but something about him made Gair’s stomach turn. It reminded him of Amarian, only more careless.

The three stood in silence for a moment. The short man obviously enjoyed watching the other two squirm. The orbs were just beginning to rise; the cool dawn placed in stark colors the thick underbrush and sparse trees. The man was a few paces away from them, across a meager little path that before this day had seen more animal traffic than human. He leaned casually against a thin trunk, content to let them speak first.

Gair had no desire to open his mouth. It was Verial who started the conversation

“Aren’t you supposed to be with
them
?” Though her words were bold, Gair could hear a quiver in her voice.

The man shrugged, rubbing a dirty finger across his nose. “Oh, I don’t know. They seem to be doing all right just now.” He pulled out a bit of churr-root and set about lighting it. When he was done, it dangled from his lips, burning a dull green. The rank smell of the root was so pungent that they could almost taste it.

“So what are you doing here? Surely Lascombe is about to fall.” The quiver in her voice was growing stronger.

The man puffed at his makeshift cigar. “I think the more pertinent question,” he responded, turning his gaze to Gair, “is what are
you
doing here?”

Gair stiffened. “I’m here to protect the lady.” If he had been honest with himself, he thought, he would have known that that was his mission ever since he first stepped foot out of the Eastern Lands. The realization gave him strength, but he doubted it would be enough to face whoever it was that was speaking with them.

The man nodded. “Yes, I figured that’s what you would say.”

Verial looked from Gair to the man. “We must be on our way.”

“Your ‘protector’ here is free to leave. Sadly, he’s beyond my grasp. You and I, however, have a debt to settle.”

Verial narrowed her eyes. “Haven’t you already taken enough of me? What else is there to take?”

The man stepped forward, but Gair pushed himself between them. “Listen, I don’t know who or what you are, but as I said, I’m here to protect the lady.”

The man stopped, shaking his greasy head. His voice gurgled in his throat. “Oh, I know what sort of protector you are. First, you allow her to go off and cause trouble for the Prysm. Then you allow her to be manipulated by Obsidian. And the first chance you get, you go off to live in a big city, abandoning her to her enemies.
That,
” he pointed at Gair with his glowing churr-root, “is the type of protector you are. Now I will tell you again. Leave the lady and go back to the city that you enjoy so much.” He laughed—a crude, liquid sound that mutated quickly into a fit of coughing.

Gair was confused. How could he know all of that? Who
was
this character? This guy knew more about his time with Verial than even Amarian did. He looked at Verial again. He had never seen her look so afraid. This wasn’t a Chasmite. He didn’t twitch, and he knew too much. But he wasn’t a man, either. It took a moment for the awful realization to come.

“Zyreio.”

The man looked at him disdainfully. “That name sounds so foul on your lips. Now leave, Gair. Or you’ll deal with me directly.”