Springwar (32 page)

Not by their voices, but their language. The buzzy, hard-voweled accents of Ixti.

She grabbed for the door, intent on self-immolation.

Too late. A blow to her wrist numbed her hand. A press of bodies bore her to the floor, and then away. Her heels thumped against every tread as they dragged her down the stairs. “Send water,” she heard someone yell—thank The Eight she had a good grasp of the Ixtian tongue. “Save what you can. If nothing else survives, we need the Lore hall!”

And then she was being dragged along smooth marble. Not without a struggle, of course, but a mailed fist to the head made her see stars and flirt with a darkness deeper than night.

Abruptly, she was jerked to her feet, and spun around, only to be thrown to the floor again. Unable to break her fall,
her face hit the pavement—hard. Something shattered in her nose, and her throat filled with blood. Its sick/sweet odor fought with the smoke in her nostrils. Her head swam.

Someone knocked her helm aside and yanked her up by the hair. She saw boots: fine elegant boots of tooled leather, ornamented with gold leaf and jeweled filigree. She saw the hem of a gold-embroidered robe of black velvet, and then dared look higher—high as the belt, which was tooled to match the boots, but which also bore a fantastically worked geen-claw dagger. A hand clutched it, gloved in mail and black suede, but what caught her eye was the ring. Carved gold it was. Lorvinn looked closer, blinking through tears of pain her mind could not suppress.

It blurred. Cleared. Blurred again. And then she saw: the arms of Ixti.

“Your Majesty,” she heard someone say, “we believe this woman to be the Hold-Warden.”

Lorvinn grabbed frantically at the dagger—to what purpose she had no idea. Feet came down atop her, bearing her to the floor. A rib cracked. A boot stomped her hand and pain argued there with numbness seeping down from her wrist.

“My name is Lorvinn san Ferr-een,” she gasped. “Kill me now, whoever you are, for I deserve to die.”

“No,” came a voice as cold as a wind off the northern ice. “I will not kill you, though die you will. But only when certain others can witness that dying.”

And then something hit her head, and she saw no more.

Krynneth had to halt halfway down the stairs to sit down. He had no choice, really; the steady movement, the exertion of the descent, and the demands the steep treads made on his legs and balance required it. As did the queasiness rising in his stomach, that might be a response to pain, the tight spiral, or even the preposterousness of the situation. In any event he sank down on a step, barely able to see despite the feeble light of an ancient glow-globe some turns below. The silence overwhelmed him, and he thought
briefly that he ought simply to lie there and sleep. Then, when he thought it was safe, he could sneak out again and slay the Ixtians in their beds. Probably that would happen anyway. War-Hold was a warren of secret rooms, halls, and stairs.

Which of course assumed Ixti’s success, which wasn’t guaranteed, though it seemed likely. Attacked at night, with no warning, from two directions, the battle wouldn’t go in the hold’s favor. Not in a place designed to be attacked from without, not within. And he knew who was to blame, too. If not Kraxxi’s fault, it was his lover’s. Merryn’s.

Only six people he was aware of knew that secret exit, three of whom had gone north into Eron. He and Lorvinn were two more, which left Merryn. Merryn, whom Krynneth had admired almost as much as he’d admired Lorvinn herself.

Dizziness swam near. Krynneth bent over, removed his helm, and let his head fall between his knees. Darkness encroached, then retreated, leaving him marginally more alert. He donned the helm again but didn’t buckle it, and rose—carefully, bracing himself against the wall.

And continued down.

He found the door before he expected it, and pressed a hidden stud. Stone slid sideways, revealing a large, dimly lit chamber hewn from solid stone: the assembly hall of the Night Guard, where someone was supposed always to be on duty.

Someone was—or had been.

Thirty of them actually: caught unaware and murdered by a force that had found the outer door but not the inner, which confirmed what Krynneth had suspected. That door, which he’d never seen opened, had given onto the secret corridor by which his foes had entered. He’d seen it from the outside the night of Kraxxi’s escape and their aborted pursuit. Seen it and wondered. Clearly the invaders had as well—to the Guard’s regret.

But there were other ways in and out, one of which Lorvinn had only revealed to him four days ago.

Stepping over the body of a woman named Vynyn, he
knelt to press a series of floor tiles in sequence, and was relieved to see another section of wall slide sideways. He was in it before it fully opened, fumbling for the closure stud. Found it—and moved on—through pitch-dark, which forced him to shuffle along lest he stumble, while he raked the wall to his left with his less functional arm.

On and on he traveled, through the dark, sometimes tending uphill, sometimes down, aware only of the increasing cold and his own growing weakness, and, more and more, of a pounding in the silence that was the sound of his heart pumping an ever-decreasing supply of blood.

Kraxxi sat in a padded chair to which he was bound by golden clamps and golden chains two spans away from Merryn, who was likewise accoutered, and watched firelight flicker and flare over War-Hold. Men guarded them ten deep to every side. The land between the hold’s crag and that on which they sat opposite the hold’s southern side was plowed to ruts by hooves and the odd war machine, where a thousand of Barrax’s elite troops had made their way by stealth through what once had been a secret gate and was no longer.

Cold wind bit at him; he shuddered even in the ceremonial fur and armor they’d provided to mark him part of this expedition. Stars rode overhead, but no moons, which was one reason the attack had been mounted when it had. Kraxxi wondered what time it was, and when this would all be over. But more than that, he wondered about Merryn. He tried to catch her eye, but they’d bound her head in a padded vise so that she could only look toward the hold she had betrayed. Her mouth was gagged, but her eyes were open, held that way by clamps. A woman stood nearby, dripping water into them. It was Barrax’s idea, not Lynnz’s. Proof that a king could be crueler than any torturer.

At least they hadn’t torched the place—not that it would burn anyway. Though full of fine wood, carpet, and tapestries, the bulk of the hold was thick stone. Even a major fire
would be confined, though not its poisonous smoke, perhaps, or other noxious fumes. In any event, it had been four hands since the attack had begun, and resolution, if any, should be imminent.

As if in reply, a flare rose from the central tower, exploding overhead in a burst of green and white. Proof War-Hold was, to Barrax’s satisfaction, taken.

Kraxxi wondered why his father had bothered to put himself at risk to lead the attack. It was foolish and rash.

But perhaps he was like Kraxxi. Perhaps he wanted a glimpse of the splendors their cold northern rival could produce during its forced confinement.

All Kraxxi knew was that he was sick—at heart, and almost physically ill as well. He had brought this to pass. People he knew and liked were dead or dying. People who’d trusted him, who’d sparred with him, who’d given him books to read, who’d treated him like a kinsman and friend.

All … dead.

He closed his eyes to shut it out, but was jerked back to attention by the pounding of hoofbeats on the slope below. Dark shapes showed, moving across the muddy grass, shapes that slowly resolved into riders. Long before they arrived, however, Kraxxi had identified them, by the glitter of gold on weapons, helms, and armor, as his father’s personal guard. To his great surprise, however, they didn’t veer to the right, toward Barrax’s hastily raised tent, but galloped straight toward him, not stopping until they reached the ring of torchlight that turned trampled grass to molten gold.

The king himself leapt down, tossing his reins to a groom with practiced nonchalance, then gestured to his companions. Kraxxi squinted into the glare. They were helping someone from a horse, it appeared. A prisoner, he supposed. But why …?

His father had doffed his helm and was marching toward him. His face was sheened with sweat and his hair was plastered to his skull like paint. Blotches of darkness on armor and clothing hinted at more stains than smoke. All at once,
Barrax was before him. He reached to his waist and drew out his sword, thrusting it beneath Kraxxi’s nose. Blood glistened on it, still wet for all it had been scabbarded. “The blood of Eron,” Barrax sneered. “Given to me by you—or by your lady, who followed you!”

Kraxxi tried to close his eyes, to look away, but at a sign from Barrax, two of Kraxxi’s guards seized him, forcing his eyes open.

Barrax grinned, and wiped the sword along Kraxxi’s throat—not to cut, but to mark him there.

And then the king moved on to Merryn. Who ignored his taunts completely, as he repeated what he’d done to Kraxxi.

“Enough!” the king barked. “Bring the prisoner.”

Kraxxi followed the sound of movement to his left, and saw the prisoner being hauled to Barrax’s feet, a span to Kraxxi’s right. It was a woman, and not young, in rough clothing splattered with blood and permeated with the stench of smoke. Still, she must be important. Kraxxi tried to make out the shadowed face beneath the grime. No one he knew. Or maybe—She’d sat back on her haunches now, and he had a clearer view.

Lorvinn! Warden of War-Hold. And Merryn’s kin
. He saw her stiffen, heard a muffled cry of alarm he suspected she regretted, given what it might have betrayed.

“Hold her,” the king snapped, and moved toward Kraxxi. “Release him!” he continued, to Kraxxi’s guards. “But keep him in chains. If he makes to escape, hamstring him.”

At those words, movement seethed around him. Hands reached to unclamp his wrists and ankles from their fetters, leaving the manacles and joining-chains. But behind those who wielded the keys, he saw rank after rank of drawn swords and spears. And damn his father for it.

“Give him a sword,” Barrax rasped. Then, when he saw a ghost of hesitation, he strode forward and thrust his own into Kraxxi’s hands. Confined by the chains, and half-numbed by the clamps, Kraxxi nearly dropped it. Certainly there was no way to strike at his father. Which he doubted was the intent in any case. But what—?

“Bring him here,” Barrax spat, motioning Kraxxi and his captors toward the kneeling Warden.

A flurry of confusion followed, and then Barrax himself eased beside Kraxxi and maneuvered him before the woman he once had known. Dimly he recalled how Lorvinn had looked down on him in judgment the day after he’d been brought captive to War-Hold. She’d tempered justice with mercy then. He owed her much. Or did he? If she’d had him slain outright fewer people would be suffering now. If only he could turn the sword on himself. But he knew he would be forestalled.

“Kill her,” Barrax rasped.

Kraxxi blinked at him. He’d heard the words, and they made sense, yet they carried no real meaning.

“Kill her!” Barrax repeated coldly. “Or watch Merryn die a joint at a time as we march north.”

Kraxxi closed his eyes, wishing this were all a dream—a nightmare, even. A delusion born of scorpion sting. Anything but what he would see when he opened his eyes again. But open them he did, when he heard the scrape of steel to his right.

He saw Lorvinn looking up at him. Her face was smudged and streaked with smoky sweat, yet her eyes were calm. No accusation showed there, only calm resignation.

“I can’t,” he choked.

Barrax slapped him hard. His cheek stung. Blood filled his mouth from a cut cheek. “Kill her, boy, or Merryn dies!”

Lorvinn said nothing.

Kraxxi took a deep breath—and dropped the sword.

Barrax grabbed it before it hit the ground, and forced it once more into Kraxxi’s grasp. But this time he didn’t let go. Rather, he stepped behind his son and with inexorable force secured his grip on the weapon—Kraxxi’s hand on the hilt, but Barrax’s hand on Kraxxi’s—and with slow deliberation, pressed the blade into Lorvinn’s breast. She recoiled reflexively—whereupon four men grabbed her and pinned her spread-eagled on the earth. Barrax wrestled Kraxxi forward until he stood above her, then, again,
lowered the sword to her chest. Kraxxi tried to struggle, but to no avail. All he could do was try not to watch, try not to feel, try not to sense anything at all, as Eronese steel pierced Eronese mail and Eronese wool, and finally entered High Clan Eronese flesh.

At least he was able to exert a tiny twist of control at the last, so that it was quickly over.

Abruptly, the pressure was gone—as was the sword. He sagged back and would’ve fallen had hands not grabbed him and dragged him back to his chair.

Barrax hadn’t moved. He was staring down at the first of what Kraxxi supposed would be many vanquished foes.

And he was still standing there ten breaths later, when a low rumble jarred the land, quaking up through their boots, and making tent poles and standards tremble. Kraxxi glanced up at once, fearing—or hoping—that the fire mountain on whose knees the hold was raised was voicing its protest. Or that, perhaps, he might be about to witness a physical manifestation of the so-far mythical Eight.

The rumbling increased alarmingly. An explosion lit the night. Fire was only part of it, however. Mostly it was pressurized steam released abruptly, as the untended heat plant beneath the hold did what Barrax himself had forbidden—and blew War-Hold-Winter, the guardian-gate to Eron’s southern flank, to flinders.

Kraxxi watched numbly. They all did. Yet only when the sun rose did they grasp the true scope of the devastation. The central keep was gone, and with it a length of wall across which it had fallen. Fire sparked here and there. Maybe some survived—on either side; Kraxxi doubted Barrax cared. The power of War-Hold was broken. Spring was in the air, and the north of Eron waited.

Among those who rode out the following morning were a soldier named Zrill, who remembered someone saying in the bowels of the hold that they were fools, and a woman named Merryn, to whom breath itself was now a burden.