The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) (135 page)

Something passed over Linciard's face: relief?  The blade wavered, then lowered.  “What now, captain?” he rasped.

Sarovy looked to Cortine and found someone unexpected there: the medic Shuralla.  Either the priest had collapsed or she had knocked him down, because she had him pinned to the ground with her knees and was struggling to pull his hands away from his face as he screamed.  Bloody hand-prints covered her striped coat.

Beyond them, some Blaze Company soldiers stood guard over the downed specialists, while others argued.  The burning garrison illuminated Vrallek, defended; the lagalaina Ilia wailing over her two sisters; and Herrick, now the center-point of a near-brawl between two groups of Arlin's men.  Linciard barked a sudden order, and Sarovy followed his gaze to another unexpected group: Stormfollower and his Jernizen, who halted guiltily beside fallen Rallant.

Elsewhere and all around, the rest of Blaze Company moved among Wreth's fallen crew like battlefield vultures, cutting throats with no regard for rank.  Sarovy recognized the need, but still felt stunned.  This was too sudden, too much.

Lead.  Organize.  Understanding can wait.

“Lieut—  Lieutenant Arlin!” he forced out, and saw the man straighten in surprise.  “Head-count!  Sergeant Benson!  Benson?”

At the fringe of the mob, Benson staggered up and wiped his mouth, looking ill.  “Sir?”

“Triage.  Humans on one side, specialists on the other.  Lancers!  All uninjured lancers, go handle the piking horses!  Vrallek, who speaks for Vrallek?”

The few upright specialists mumbled amongst themselves, then one stepped forward: a huge olive-skinned man with stub tusks.  “Corporal Renkurr, sir!”

“Renkurr, round up your specialists and sit them down, out of the way.  All of you, cease your infighting!  This is not the time for it!  Lieutenants, sergeants, corporals—whoever is in charge now, figure it out and get your men assembled.  We need lights, we need a—a piking bucket brigade, shelter,
get on it
.”

In the flickering firelight, he saw unease on their faces, and knew his fear had trickled into his voice.  But they did as he commanded, and as order started to return, he took a moment to see to himself: yanking his boots on properly, running his hands down his tattered uniform jacket, smoothing the captain's fledges, then closing his eyes to take a few deep breaths.  He didn't need them, but they made him feel better.  More human.

Then someone said, “Oh shit, Shadow Cult.”

His eyes popped open, and there they were: a wide semi-circle of black-clad, crossbow-wielding thugs, blocking every egress.  Mixed in with them were others in metal armor or in robes—Trifold cultists, he guessed—and several men in plainclothes.  More of his lost troops.

In the lead stood Gwydren Greymark and the Shadow woman who had shot him in the face.

And on the final side, stepping from the flames amid a swirl of wards and shimmers, were his mages: Yrsian, Voorkei and Presh, with Tanvolthene drawn behind like a prisoner. 

At his back, Sarovy's men contracted into rough ranks, bristling with stolen blades.  The lancers retreated from their horses to rejoin the safety of the group.  From all directions, enemy faces stared back with grim purpose, enough bolts seated in those crossbows to kill them all.

Stillness reigned.

“So,” said the dark woman finally.  “This is interesting.”

Sarovy said nothing.

“Do you know what just happened?”

He had his theories, but he didn't care to share them.

“I'm asking you,” she said, sharper.  “Your people's hog-crap doesn't usually affect my realm.”

“Your realm?”

She gestured toward the shadows that hulked behind her, blotting out the view of the streets.  “The eiyets sensed something when your people fell.  It distressed them.  Nothing distresses them.”

At the unusual word, his hand fell to his pocket.  The eiyetakri was still there, a hard lump under the fabric.  “I don't know what you mean.”

She stared at him, shadowed expression inscrutable, then said, “Captain, I think we should talk.”

He considered her little army, the deserters and mages on her side, and the things he had seen in the Light.  The wrongs he had done.  The crushed and burning Shadowland; the dead militiamen in the underground; the mother, the grandmother and the three frightened children.

And he thought of his men, and he drew the eiyetakri out.

“Yes,” he said.  “Let's.”

*****

Kneeling in darkness, Cob felt Dasira's pulse fall still beneath his hands, and almost let his failure overwhelm him.  He'd seen death before, but this was the first time he'd been so close—the first time he'd felt a friend's life slip through his fingers and vanish.

In desperation he pulled at her sleeve to reveal the bracer.  Perhaps she was still in it, even if her body had died—

But no.  The black surface was cold, its hooks flaking away at his touch.  When he tugged it, he felt the marrow-spike snap off beneath her skin.

With a wince of apology, he smoothed it back down, then gathered her into his arms as if the strength of his embrace could press her soul back into its proper place.  It was no use, of course.  The only power he bore now was the howling Void, which clamored for more death.

He couldn't cry, his eyes still too dried-out from the beam.  If sounds came out from between his clenched teeth, he didn't hear them.

This was it.  He was done.  With the Light, the Dark, the Void, the Great Spirits and all those other pushy malcontent powers.  They didn't matter.  Darilan—Dasira—his
friend
had mattered, and now it was too late for him to say so.

Never again.

It took some time, but eventually he made himself lay her down, and slowly stood to look at the throne.  Enkhaelen was still up there, and—

The red cord twinged.  He blinked, surprised; he'd thought it was a Guardian thing.  But then he remembered what it meant and staggered after its pull, up the dais to where a cocoon-like lump of webbing had been revealed by the sagging steps.

By the time he got there, it had already begun to split, its torn weave falling away in coils.  A bent head emerged, then a shoulder, and his heart lurched as he heard Fiora gasp.  He didn't know how she'd gotten here, but it didn't matter; he moved to her side immediately, raking away more of the webbing then pulling her arm across his shoulders.  As her body settled against his, awakening tingles raced through his skin, banishing the lingering chill and sending a throb through his scorched arm.

He hauled up with enough force to nearly send them over backward, clearing her hips and legs and feet from the cocoon with a sound like rending cloth.  As they steadied, she clutched at his robe-front, gaze flitting about wildly.  “Goddess...oh goddess, I can't see...”

“S'okay, it's jus' dark,” he said, realizing now the fullness of that fact.  The Palace's glow was gone, leaving only a handful of stars to glint in the gaps of the roof, but he could see perfectly well—if muted.  She, apparently, could not.

“What happened?  You're...yourself again?”

“Yeah.  We...”  He couldn't say
won
.  “Succeeded.”

She took a deep breath, and on the exhale relaxed her grip on him.  “Good, good,” she said, a note of distraction creeping into her voice.

It wasn't like her.  “How d'you feel?  And—” 
The baby?
he almost said, but he could still sense it in her, small but vital.

“Fine.  I'm fine,” she said, and tried to push away.  He caught her before she could go tumbling down the steps, but at her sound of annoyance opted to begin leading her to the floor rather than comment.  “The others?”

“They—  I don't know.  Das is dead.  Arik fell into the pit.”

“What pit?”

“Down here.  C'mon, maybe I can—“  He couldn't think of anything to do.  He'd lost the Guardian's sense of the elements, of life, of control, and he refused to touch the Void.

Fiora made a noncommittal sound.  Carefully he helped her off the steps, trying not to react to her mood—whatever it was.  There were so many things he wanted to say but he knew instinctively that they weren't welcome.

The going wasn't any better on the main floor, which had already softened in patches and begun to split.  While the contagious blackness had been blasted away from much of this area, the bits that remained were expanding, creating potholes everywhere.  He led her to a stable spot, helped her sit, then moved to the pit with a painful, doubting sort of hope.

The dark water was gone, drained back into its nether-realm.  Bodies carpeted the bottom, shock-shattered or drowned; a few figures struggled weakly up the deteriorating walls.  One, directly below, looked up as he stared down, then grinned wolfishly.

“Arik!” he fairly shouted.  The skinchanger gave a croon, then redoubled his one-armed climbing efforts until he got close enough for Cob to grab him under the arms and haul him up.  Once topside, he immediately shifted into wolf-form and crammed himself against Cob's chest, whining and shivering.  Cob pulled him over by Fiora, then spent some time just scrubbing his hands through the dense fur, murmuring nothing in particular.

A flicker of light interrupted them.  Cob glanced back to see something glowing on the throne, and a shape moving toward it—bulky, weary, stumble-footed.  Mumbling an apology, he lurched up, diverting momentarily to grab the silver sword from where he'd dropped it.

This time, his feet sank deep into the dais material.  Gaps in it showed bare stone beneath, but he didn't have time to wonder; against the glow, he saw his opponent's armor and the spikes protruding from it, including some from the clenched fist.

“Stop,” he snapped.

The figure halted, turning its head slightly.  Its face was a vague facsimile of the prince's, but carapace had taken over for skin, and the hair bristled as sharply as Arik's quills.

“Guardian,” it said.

“What d'you think you're doin'?”

It nodded up the steps toward the throne and the glow.  “Assisting Enkhaelen.”

“No,” said Cob, not looking.  “I'll do that.  He and I, we got business still.”

“So do we.”

“Mine's more important.  Or d'you wanna fight again?”

The prince-creature regarded him coolly, and he found himself wishing he hadn't said that.  Though he didn't have his crystal blade, the prince was still bigger and probably stronger, and the glassy spikes that had disrupted his armor made him look dangerously inhuman.  There was a gleam in his eyes too, unlike what Cob had seen before.  In contrast, Cob had a half-melted sword, a burnt and throbbing hand, and no backup.

Then something shifted in the prince's expression, and he shook his head sharply as if to clear it.  “No,” he said, “I acknowledge your claim.  I'd rather not add more enemies to my roster.”

Surprised, Cob watched him turn to descend, then blurted, “Are you the Emperor now?”

The prince didn't pause.  “I won't take this throne.  It can rot for all I care.”

Cob stared after him as he reached the bottom and started calling out to the remaining Imperials.  There weren't many on this side, and they responded sluggishly, limping or stumbling or supporting each other as they moved toward his voice.  Far more lay still, dropped in their tracks by the loss of the Light.

It worried Cob to have them gathering so close to his friends, but the prince had seemed honorable.  Banishing his doubts, he turned again toward the throne.

The glow that had alerted him hung like a sourceless candle-flame above the outstretched body of the necromancer.  He was still tethered to the wall by a grossly dislocated arm, but the throne's substance had slumped enough to put him in reach of the green-robed corpse at its foot—and the knife it held.  As Cob reached the top, the necromancer glanced up and made a final grab for the weapon.

Cob trapped it under his heel and used both arms to haul Enkhaelen upright, then shove him to the throne.  The effort made his burns flare, but he bit back the pain.  Enkhaelen struggled against him weakly, chin dark with ichorous fluid, then made a grab for the silver sword.  Cob held it away.

“Use it!” the necromancer rasped.  “I led you to it for a purpose, so carry it out!”

“To break your spell—“

“To kill me, you piking idiot!”

Cob stared down at him.  He remembered the white hawk and the nightmare-manor, the tattered Ravager in the garret, the glass bier holding the dead silver woman, and how the necromancer had nearly unraveled in the courtyard.  “You wanted this?”

“Yes!”

“I thought—  The way you fled—“

“I was fa—kh!”  His words devolved into coughs, and by reflex Cob held him steady as he hacked up chunks of rot.  Black fluid followed, spattering the edge of the throne and running down to join the black puddle beneath.

Finally the necromancer hauled in a harsh breath, and croaked, “I was faking.  I knew what would happen because I enchanted it.  I let you see me—I let Geraad show you—so you'd come here and finish this.  Please.  Before Rackmar or the haelhene come back.”