Vault Of Heaven 01 - The Unremembered (80 page)

Grant looked at Vendanj, a deep frown upon his face. “How is this possible?”

“That is something you may help us discover. But these women are now alone, and they will go alone to the life beyond. I have seen the withering of their souls.…”

The room fell silent. Finally, Grant spoke again. “Then perhaps my primrose should speak for
all
the Eastlands, and I should find a voice, speak it into reality.…”

Vendanj cautioned with a darkly reverent whisper, “Do not utter such a thing.”

Grant looked back at the Sheason. “I cannot return to that place, Sheason. That part of my life is over.”

In final, humble request, Vendanj asked, “If not for the family of man, if not for its servants … then do it for Tahn.”

Again Braethen saw a flicker of recognition in Grant’s eyes, and a look of utter regret steal across his face. “I cannot,” Grant said. “You may take my words with you and share them as you see fit. But this is where I’ve made my home. This is where I was sent to serve sentence for the crime of conscience. I know no other way anymore. I will fill your skins, give you direction, and tend your horses. But I will not reenter the world of men. Though my world here is bleak, I came to it willingly. I’ve no mind or patience for the politics of a council, for Vohnce or any other king or nation.”

Disgust showed plainly on Vendanj’s face. The Sheason could compel Grant by some other means, but instead rose, casting a look at the Charter half penned on the table. “You may be in need of your document, Grant, when the border of your Scar is much wider than your map allows. But it will not be so easy to know where the Scar ends and growth continues when Quiet and Dark attack across every border like a lengthening shadow. You know the risk. You know our hope. And you know the regent.”

Grant cast a curious glance at the Sheason.

“Yes, she is still alive,” Vendanj said. “Older now, slower, but her hand is still iron inside a velvet glove. And to her credit, she seeks to see past her own border. We’ll leave you to your warder’s task, Grant, though its purpose is likely near an end.”

Vendanj went toward the door, Mira close behind. Braethen started to follow, his mind scrambled by pieces of a puzzle he didn’t know how to fit together.

“East by the dog star,” Grant said, his voice rough and unsteady at the edges. “Your horses are weak. Walk them if you want them to live. You’ve water for three days.” He paused, the tension in the small home thick and smothering. “Watch closely, Far. Quietgiven have been near the last two nights. The Scar is no obstacle to them anymore. Safe passage,” he said, still staring at his fire.

Vendanj went into the night. Mira paused at the door to give Braethen a summoning look. The sodalist spared another glance at the three youths in the hall, the document nailed to the back wall, and the exile poised near the small hearth. Then he rushed to join the others, the fragments of these new stories heavy in his mind.

As they found their horses, Braethen heard Vendanj curse more than once. The Sheason gave each horse a sprig, then told them to mount. The lesser light blazed in the night sky, accompanied by the brilliant glitter of countless stars. The day’s heat had fled, leaving a brittle cold in the clarity of night. Braethen glanced back once to see a pale square of light cast from the exile’s window, its feeble glow resting on the ground beside the house. Vendanj took his mount and rode away at a sprint. Mira checked to see that Braethen stayed close, then followed. But Braethen hesitated on Roleigh, wondering if a dozen stories, and the strong arm of this man Grant, were being left behind forever to rot in the timeless waste of the Scar. He touched the saddlebag that held Ogea’s books, and promised himself he would write what he knew when time allowed, then raced after the three-ring man and the fleetfoot.

A thousand strides away, where Grant’s house could no longer be seen, Vendanj rode to a stop, jumped out of his saddle, and cast a quick look to the sky, seeking, Braethen assumed, the dog star. The Sheason walked on at a fast clip, neither checking to see if he was followed nor paying any heed to his horse, which obediently trailed a few paces behind. Mira handed her reins to Braethen and disappeared into the darkness before Braethen thought to say or ask anything.

They traveled for an hour, Vendanj striding with a determined gait, Mira a blur every few minutes at the edges of Braethen’s vision. Preternatural silence lay across the rocks and dry grass, broken barely by the sounds of their passage. Only the clean hint of sage and a light sweat on his upper lip left Braethen with the certainty that he was not dreaming.

Suddenly, the Sheason stopped. He turned and searched the terrain in a full circle about them. The cold came more severely, the frost of the great spaces between the stars descending upon them.

Connected.

That was the feeling. Braethen reached out experimentally and all of a sudden felt that from the farthest star above to the ground beneath him, a kind of relationship existed. That every movement was known to every other mover, like swimming in a still pool, the ripples giving away your presence. To move meant to disturb the whole, but Vendanj strode onward, a hand raised to his chest. With wary fingers, Braethen took hold of his sword, remembering the last time he’d raised it in his own defense, and grimaced a little at the touch.

They walked over a knoll, moon shadows vague and ghostly behind them. Then, in an instant, the world turned to fire. As if from nowhere, seven great hulking shapes rose from the ground. They stood against the velvety darkness of the sky, their massive silhouettes blotting out stars. Behind them stood two sleeker shapes, draped in long robes with wide cowls.
Velle!
Beside each of the Quiet renderers stood shorter figures, slumped and beaten. Each of the beings stirred, and the feeling of connection, of being close, part of everything, part of them, rippled like heated tar. Braethen drew his sword and agonized over the lethargy he felt, the way he often did in dreams when he tried to flee but his legs disobeyed.

Only Mira seemed unaffected, but Braethen believed even she had lost a step. The Far rushed in, dancing close to the Sheason, and crouched. She held one sword before her; the other cocked back over her shoulder.

One of the Velle uttered a command in a deep, rasping voice, and the Bar’dyn fanned to the sides: three moved left, three to the right, and one stayed directly before them. Mira turned to face the three on the left. Vendanj took two steps out and threw back his cloak to free his arms as he turned to face the three on the right. Braethen caught a glint of argent in the blades of the Bar’dyn facing the Sheason. The mammoth creatures out of the Bourne hesitated.

“Step in, sodalist,” Mira said without looking. “Fill the gap and remember what I’ve showed you. Remember balance. Fight quickly, not rushed.”

Braethen took three long, careful strides and held his sword out at an angle.

The Bar’dyn directly ahead of him pivoted into a defensive posture, and spoke. “All this way. How fitting that you will come to an end here.” His voice rasped as though damaged by the smoke of a thousand fires.

The sound of the Bar’dyn’s voice flowed over Braethen like waves in that pool of connection, but beneath, his muscles tightened and suddenly the grip of the sword felt wonderfully sure and right. Braethen looked past the speaker to the two forms behind him. They stood still, implacable, the hatred in their eyes palpable, their calm disquieting.

Velle. By my father’s Sky, I have lived to see Velle walk the land.

Then each of the tall, still figures reached for the closest hunched man beside him, and took vicious hold of his flesh. Weak cries came, uttered through swollen lips. In a breath, the air burned with red flames that sizzled and shot like lightning in random patterns from each free hand.

“Roll!” Mira screamed.

Braethen reacted instinctively, falling to his left and scampering. Mira leapt back, and Braethen heard the sound of the Sheason’s thick cloak snapping as he dashed aside. Great shards of fire bit the ground where they had been standing. The earth boomed in protest and shook. In that moment, the Bar’dyn came on. Two rushed Mira, nearly taking her by surprise as she tried to escape the fire. A pike whirled through the air toward her head, another at her knees. The Far ducked and leapt in the same movement, landing on her feet just when the Bar’dyn were upon her. She pivoted sideways and dove between them, just escaping a second blow from a quick blade.

Braethen rolled to his knees, dust rising in his throat and forcing him to cough. He still held his sword, and got his second hand to its grip as the third Bar’dyn dove toward him. He had no time to roll again, and tried to raise the sword to accept the charge. He was too late. The force of the massive creature bowled him back and under, a gout of saliva spraying his face with rank-smelling mucus. Pain bloomed in his chest, taking his wind. The Bar’dyn clutched his throat.

Something unbidden rose in him, then. He looked into the face of the Bar’dyn and wrapped his hand around the hilt of his sword, gripping it savagely. His chest heaved, and he roared, “I am I!”

The force of the words stopped the Bar’dyn for a moment, and in that time, Braethen brought the sword up, pulling its sharpened edge across the beast’s neck. The thick, armorlike skin gave under the blade. Braethen scarcely noticed the white glow. The Bar’dyn fell back, trying to stop the blood that coursed from the wound. A frightened surprise touched its eyes as it stared at Braethen and pulled away, growing slower with each scrambling pace.

The sodalist’s concern turned immediately to Vendanj. As he whirled, he saw the Sheason make a long sweeping gesture with his arm toward the closest Quietgiven. The Bar’dyn toppled forward, and struck the ground like a great piece of ironmongery.

The strangled cries of the bent and ravaged men near the Velle grew louder. Braethen suddenly realized that without Forda in the ground to draw upon in the Scar to replenish their expended Will, the Velle were using real men, stealing their Forda to fuel their fight. Anger burned hot behind Braethen’s eyes and he whipped his sword in a harsh arc toward the Velle, then moved fast to join Vendanj.

Each breath he took seared his lungs. He raised his sword, which now glowed as bright as a meridian sky. Around him, a yellow mist rose, spreading quickly in every direction.

“Vendanj!” he cried, swatting at the air with his blade.

The Sheason spun at the sound of his name. In that moment, the two Bar’dyn behind him advanced. Braethen tried to yell a warning, but the yellow mist stole his voice. He pointed, and just when the Bar’dyn raised their swords at Vendanj, the Sheason lifted both arms, his fists clenched. Thunder bellowed from his mouth and struck the Bar’dyn like a battering ram, casting them back several strides. The impact drove the yellow haze from the air in an instant.

Just as quickly the soil began to bubble, then to flow like mud, and he and the Sheason began to sink. More cries screeched into the night, and Braethen saw the first men being used by the Velle pitch to the ground, spent. The sound they made as they fell was ghastly, as if even their dying breaths were stolen from them. Braethen fumed and struggled to wade from the mud in which he was now nearly knee deep. Mira leapt over the growing quagmire to meet the advancing Bar’dyn leader. The beast’s great sword swept toward her. The Far feinted back and threw one of her swords at the Bar’dyn in a mighty heave. The Bar’dyn raised a quick hand to ward off the attack. Mira’s sword pierced his palm through, spattering drops of blood into the Bar’dyn’s face. The beast yowled and continued to sweep its steel at the Far, shaking Mira’s sword from its other hand.

As Braethen fought the thickness claiming his legs, Vendanj touched his arm. Together, they began to rise from the mud, which continued to bubble and spurt. The Bar’dyn to the right had regained their feet and rushed around the mud toward Mira.

Then, several hollow pops sounded from behind them, and the whistle of fletching tore past their heads. A moment later, the Bar’dyn captain absorbed a volley of arrows with his chest and neck. Some of the shafts broke against the armorlike toughness of the Bar’dyn’s skin, but many found purchase in the massive body, driving it backward in a stumbling fall.

Vendanj stood and heard the popping of another volley as the Bar’dyn tried to scramble away, arrows showering their backs and legs. Those Bar’dyn that could still move scurried off into the night. But the Velle stood firm, keeping hold of their human vessels to draw more Forda.

Braethen turned to see Grant and eight striplings standing back with bows aimed and drawn. Vendanj put his hands together and raised a bright ball of light to illuminate the entire area. The youths gasped at what they saw. Braethen turned around in the mud and saw it, too. The men the Velle held to draw upon for their Forda were a few of Grant’s own wards. The first two had already fallen; the second two appeared alive enough, but firmly in the skeletal hands of the Given.

“Your brothers,” Grant said evenly. Some of the striplings looked at him with horrified expressions; others nodded gravely. “See what will become of them. It is your mercy.” He raised his own bow and held his aim.

The Velle were preparing some dark use of those they yet held—their last vessels of Forda.

A moment of dark regard stretched across the Scar.

As Grant began to shout, “Fire,” the Quiet renderers drew the remaining life from the wards they gripped. Before anything more could happen, they vanished, like shadows when the sun dawns over a barren plain. Several arrows whistled over the Scar, sailing harmlessly high against the night. The two wards slumped when the hands of the dark emissaries disappeared.