Springwar (72 page)

Strynn nodded solemnly and reached out to hug him, then turned her gaze to Merryn. “If you’ll help him get the armor, I’ll try to get hold of Rann. Eight, but I wish he hadn’t given Gynn his gem.”

Merryn nodded back, as solemn. “He’ll want to know, if he doesn’t know already.”

Strynn gave Avall one final, brief hug and dashed away.

Avall followed her with his eyes for maybe a dozen steps, then looked back at his sister. No one else was around to give orders or forbid them. No one could. Not the King, wherever he was. Not Tryffon, who was preoccupied. Not Eellon, if he still lived, or Tyrill, if she still ran the Council.

Merryn cuffed his shoulder, as she’d done since they were children. She was grinning like a child, too.

“There’s another gem somewhere out there,” Avall whispered. “We have no idea if Barrax knows how to work it.”

“Not from me and not from Eddyn,” Merryn informed him, then lifted a brow, inclining her head toward the parapet. The requisite rope ladders were piled there. The grin widened. “Should take maybe a quarter finger.”

Avall shrugged, and stepped to the rampart, then reached down, grasped one of the ladders and heaved. Merryn was right beside him, pausing only long enough to tell the nearest guardsman to be ready to hoist if either of them got into trouble.

It was strange, Avall reckoned, as he eased himself into the embrasure then over the side, how calm he felt. And how calm everyone was, here amidst what was surely the greatest battle Eron had ever seen.

And then he was descending, hand over hand, foot below foot.

He jumped the last span because Merryn did, and then the two of them were sprinting across the field, with the remnants of Ixti’s army starting to regroup only now that
the lightning storm had dissipated. A quick glance showed the geens still at work, but tiring, and a few arrows starting to fly again. And then they reached Rrath.

There was no time for nicety, no time to assess his condition save that Merryn said he still lived, though ripped from throat to belly, with disturbing things protruding. Never mind what the fall had surely broken.

All Avall needed was the helm, which was intact. He loosed the strap roughly, not caring if he hurt Rrath, while Merryn busied herself prying sword and shield from tight-curled fingers.

This was it: what Gynn would’ve done had he ever had the chance, and which
Avall
was the only other possible person to do. A pause, while he stood, and then Merryn stood as well: magic sword and magic shield clutched in either hand.

“Luck, sister,” he said, with a grin. And crammed the helm over his head. He fumbled briefly with the strap, then held out his hands. Merryn nodded solemnly, and passed him first the shield, then the sword. Both settled into his grip as though made for him.

“Luck,” Merryn whispered, and hugged him. Then: “For Eron.”

And with that, Avall squeezed sword and shield a certain way, then reached up and pressed the front of the helm into his forehead.

Something clicked.

He held his breath while power beyond all power flowed through muscles and blood, bone and skin and brain to welcome him.

He wasn’t Gynn, however, and the power expected Gynn. But he was
kin
to Gynn, and was lord of the master-stone, and so he was found acceptable. And then the true glory of everything that had transpired sneaked up and fell on him.

Avall roared that glory and that power. Then raised his sword and cleft the sky asunder.

I
t took a moment to get the balance right—appropriate, since the regalia had been made for the King of Balance. But while Avall was not Gynn, neither was he Rrath, and the three gems seemed willing to tolerate him. Even so, it was a near-impossible task: absorbing so much power without succumbing to it utterly. Avall sank to his knees as energies crackled through him. He fought it—had to, to retain his self—but eventually he recalled how it was supposed to be. The gem in the helm tapped into the brain. It was the coordinator, the thing that sorted the demands made by the rest of him.

The sword was the outlet. When he reached into the Overworld with his mind, that was where the power he found there and released here had to go.

As for the shield: it took whatever force was applied to it and channeled it back to the Overworld in turn, so that balance between the two was maintained. All of which he knew more or less instinctively.

In truth, there was no language for what occurred—yet. If Lykkon wanted to chronicle it, he’d have to pluck the sensations from Avall’s mind. Which would be a daunting task.

Avall had a more daunting task before him.

His first slash—across the sky at nothing—had been reflex. A test flourish, nothing more. Yet it had called down lightning.

If he was careful he could call down something much more dire.

And so he started forward, first at a jog, then at a run. Some of Ixti’s braver troops were starting to regroup, and the sight of this preposterous Eronese lad hard on their heels must surely be amusing. Few had seen Rrath’s wielding of this incredible, impossible weapon; and fewer still had seen Avall’s reprise. Most probably thought it merely another explosion, or one last sally of that unexpected storm. But they were turning now, a few were drawing bows. He scowled.
Enough of this
, he thought—and reached into the Overworld. Finding what passed for substance there, he gathered it up with the phantom sword that existed there as well, then brought both through the barrier between. A prayer to Fate for guidance, and he swept the sword before him, at the same time releasing what it held. It was something between flame and lightning—not the natural lightning Rrath had called—and it flashed from the sword’s tip in a smooth, bright swath of thunderous power. It struck the men nearest and cut them, burned them, and blasted them with lightning all at once. Those in the forefront died. Shields availed little. He strode forward again, and the tide of enemy moved back. He was ten spans from the tower walls now, and fifty spans from the gate. The nearest live men were ten spans or more from him.

Behind him, he heard Merryn yelling—and cheering the Eronese on.

Avall didn’t dare look back, for a volley of arrows arched his way. He raised the shield reflexively, and let instinct and the gems do the rest. He wished those arrows gone, their force reduced to naught, and so it happened. Any that neared the shield simply
weren’t
. Or else an onlooker might see them lose their force and fall, an ineffectual rain of sticks. Avall could follow them farther, to where the force they commanded was siphoned to the Overworld to replace what had been stolen from there.

He was, he realized, invulnerable, as long as the shield drank the force of incoming blows or missiles.

That gave him confidence—though he was scared to death, for the gems seemed to glory in what he was about. Which revolted him. He’d never been one for violence, though he could swing a sword as well as the next man. But killing men or women—How many would he have to slay before Ixti surrendered?

Perhaps he should seek Barrax himself. Barrax who had the master gem, and might be fool enough to wield it.

What would happen then? Would it be gem against gem, with people reduced to vessels of power? Or would that first and strongest gem overwhelm the combined might of the rest?

For now it didn’t matter, because the nearest part of the Ixtian force had turned again, this time under the command of one of their more impressive officers, and were charging.

Once again he raised the sword, and sowed death and Overworld fire through the foe. Few emerged unscathed, for the force penetrated as deep into the ranks as there was straight-line access.

Men screamed and howled, and those in front who survived threw down their weapons. Some were cut down by those coming up behind, but often enough those, too, turned to flee.

The commander had lost his horse, and the leather on his thighs was smoking, but still he advanced: brave, if nothing else.

Avall moved to meet him. Six spans … five … three. Avall could see his eyes as he approached.

Avall hesitated, then moved in. Two spans …

They closed.

The man swung his sword.

Avall met it—he thought—for there was a flash of light and the tiniest resistance, and then his blade sheared through.

The Ixtian threw down the stump, and launched himself straight at Avall, drawing his geen-claw dagger.

Avall parried with his shield, not wanting to kill a man whose eyes he’d seen.

The man struck the shield. Fire exploded, and the man went hurtling back, minus several finger depths of armor, skin, and flesh.

Avall dared not look at him, though he wondered how he had mouth and throat enough to manage so much screaming.

Thought as much long enough to call down more Overworld fire and end the man’s agony, at any rate.

There was little resistance as Avall waded farther into the foe. He had forces at his back now: Eronese warriors who took captives or harried those who lingered. He could hear horses galloping up, too: probably Royal Guard. They would, he realized grimly, have to choose a new High King.

Yet still he strode. Wondering what it would take to ensure Ixti’s surrender.

Wondering what Barrax was doing and where he was doing it.

Wondering …

On and on he walked, through snow and mud—and grass that was wet with melting snow and blood.

And, increasingly, through bodies. Some were burned and smelled of smoke, hot leather, and cooking meat. Others were the grisly legacy of the geens

But where was Barrax?

Where was Ixti’s thrice-cursed king?

Almost he found himself wishing, in that troublesome way that tended to take one to the object of desire, that the gems would take him to Barrax.

But it was Merryn who elbowed him in the ribs and pointed west, where a party in gleaming gold and black were advancing out of the chaos that had been Ixti’s army.

By their panoply, most particular the twin set of armored banner-bearers, Avall knew he faced the one he sought.

Unlike Gynn, however, who’d worn a half helm with intricate nasal and ear pieces, Barrax min Fortan wore a full helmet, through which his eyes alone were revealed. Which Avall thought strange, given that most of Ixti’s soldiers wore helms similar to his or Gynn’s. Yet this certainly was Barrax:
the heraldry proclaimed it—and the weaponry, and the arrogant bearing.

He also rode horseback while Avall stood there on foot, weapon to the ready, wondering if this was an ambush. Wondering if he would have to kill a man in cold blood and reap the whirlwind that came after. Wondering …

Merryn stepped up beside him, fixed him with a stare that could’ve melted metal, her eyes glittering with a wild light even in the recesses of her helm, as though two coals banked there, eager to awaken new flame. “Brother,” she rasped, “I claim this man as mine.”

“Merryn …”

“I claim this man as
mine,”
Merryn repeated, louder, taking a step closer, which put her ahead of Avall. No longer addressing him, either. Her voice was calm, and she stood straight and so firmly planted on the earth it looked as though she’d grown there. The wind whipped her surcoat about her. Argen maroon, Avall noted for the first time. Not Ferr crimson.

Silence, save for the wind snapping Ixti’s banners.

“I claim this man’s
life
as mine,” Merryn amended. “I’ve no use for his body.”

Avall heard a low, nervous chuckle behind him—once, then amplified into tens and hundreds, as he realized that a good chunk of Eron’s army stood behind them, having forced their way through the slighted walls. Even Tryffon. Hopefully even Strynn and Rann and Lykkon and Div.

Silence … still …

Which maybe wasn’t good. And Merryn had never been one for patience.

Avall moved the sword ever so slightly: a brush of contact with that other place, withdrawn instantly. Thunder rumbled. Lightning sparked from the sword’s tip to the ground.

Murmurs filled Ixti’s ranks.

“Who are you to claim this?” Barrax called back, in accented Eronese, voice rendered muffled and tinny by his helm.

“One who has known your hospitality,” Merryn retorted.
“One who would give as good as she received. Better, even, for whatever pain I cost you will be over very soon indeed.”

“While you spend the rest of your life recalling how you betrayed your people?” Barrax shot back, with a wicked chuckle. “How you traded love for indiscretion, and so sealed your country’s doom.”

“I see no doom,” Merryn snorted. “Now come, Barrax of Ixti. Fight me, or run away. My brother could slay you where you stand, if it pleased him. It pleases me to have him forgo that thing.”

“Where is your king?” Barrax spat. “I see only soldiers—and boys. And one too-forward woman.”