Wings of Wrath (19 page)

Time to call it a day,
Rhys thought. It might take them a while to find a stretch of ground that was dry enough to camp. Better to do that before the last of the light was gone.

His eyes were focused on the ground ahead when they came around a bend and suddenly found their way blocked. They had to pull their mounts up short to keep from barreling into the obstruction; the pack horses following behind them neighed in confusion as they paused to take stock of the situation.

There was a tree lying across the streambed, effectively blocking any forward movement. It was a thick conical pine with long, close-set branches that appeared to have tumbled down the eastern wall of the valley. Rhys took note of the loose mound of dirt and rocks that must have come pouring down the valley wall when it fell.
Must have been a victim of the spring rains,
he thought. Such things were not unusual in this region, but they could be damned inconvenient.

It was too thick an obstacle for them to lead the horses through it, and too high for them to jump over it safely. They'd have to move the cursed thing out of the way. Muttering invectives, Rhys prepared to dismount and motioned for Namanti to follow suit. He hoped they could get this taken care of before full darkness fell.

But even as began to swing his leg over his saddle, he paused.

Something was wrong. He couldn't put his finger on what it was, just that it was . . . wrong.

He looked over to Namanti. She hadn't dismounted either, and from the look on her face she had the same sense of misgiving. It was a strange sensation, as though the mental capacity he needed to analyze the situation was there inside him, but he could not access it. He'd never felt anything quite like it before.

Then Namanti hissed softly. He followed her gaze to the roots of the fallen tree. It took him a minute to realize what she had seen, but when he did, his blood turned to ice in his veins.

They hadn't torn loose from the ground.

They'd been
cut.

Before he could draw in another breath a crossbow bolt struck him in the shoulder, hard enough that it almost knocked him from his saddle. Namanti's Skandir mount squealed as it was struck by a second bolt, and he could see her struggling one-handed to keep him under control as she reached behind her for the small shield that hung from her pack. Hot pain lanced through his arm as he pulled his own horse quickly around, causing the next bolt to miss him by inches. Two more struck the leather packs strapped to his saddle. The shots were coming from directly above, which was bad, very bad. There was no way for them to go forward with the tree in their way, and no shelter in sight save the tree itself, which arrows could easily pierce. The only chance they had was to flee back the way they had come, but any ambush worth its salt would have made preparations to cover such a retreat.

They were trapped.

One of the pack horses squealed and went down; Rhys got his own mount out of the way just in time to avoid being carried down with it. Ignoring the molten pain in his arm, he pulled out the letter that Favias had given them and held it high. “We are Guardians!” he cried, angling it so that those high above them could see its seal. Every human being that lived in the Protectorates should respect such a sign. Even the bandits of the region gave Guardians a wide berth, either respecting their mission or simply because they feared retribution by a cadre of warriors said to be favored by the gods themselves.

But these men respected nothing.

With a sudden cry of defiance Namanti wheeled her horse around to face the valley wall and urged the beast into a run. At first Rhys thought she was going to try to get it to jump over the tree near its top, where the branches were smallest, in the hope it could carry them far enough to avoid being impaled when they landed. But then he saw that she was not heading for the tree but for the valley wall itself. There was one place where the slope was not as extreme as elsewhere and she was heading straight for it. He watched in fascinated horror as the massive beast leaped for the wall, momentum carrying him up the steep slope as his great hooves dug into the rocky earth, fighting for purchase. What the horse lacked in agility he made up for in raw power, forcing his way up the impossible slope step by step. Bolts struck him in the neck and shoulder as he climbed, and blood poured down his coat. Still he kept going, fighting for every inch, an angled ascent that would soon bring him over the top of the tree so that he could come down safely on the other side.

She's going to make it,
Rhys thought in awe. Readying himself to follow suit if she did.

But then the powerful hooves missed their grip; clods of earth went flying in all directions as the horse scrabbled desperately for purchase. Namanti shifted her weight, trying to help the horse regain his balance, but his momentum was gone now, and gravity's grip was closing fast.

Gravity won.

The fall was not long, but it was brutal. Namanti was thrown from her saddle as the great horse struggled to right himself and was caught by one of his flailing hooves. Rhys heard the snap of bone as she landed hard amid the tree's sharp branches. A moment later the horse came down on top of her and Rhys heard a sickening thud as nearly a ton of horseflesh slammed into the ground . . . and into her. Where one of her arms was visible he could see that it was broken in two places. Her head was twisted over to one side, her neck at an angle that implied the worst.

With a cry of anguish, Rhys pulled his horse around and began a mad gallop southward. Never mind the ambush that might be waiting for him there; he would ride right through it if he had to. A terrible black mourning filled his heart, an utter determination to escape this trap and see that those who had brought Namanti down paid for it with their lives. If he had to brave a field of arrows to do that, then he would. There was really no other option, was there?

Then his horse carried him around a bend, and he saw what was waiting for him and he pulled up, desperately, feeling his horse skid on the wet gravel underfoot as he tried to stop himself in time.

In front of him was a line of men, all in identical helmets and breastplates, and in front of
them
was a line of stakes, each one as thick as his arm and fashioned in a deadly point. Each stake was fixed in the ground in such a manner that it was angled toward him; any horse bearing down upon such an array would surely impale itself . . . and its rider.

I am going to die here,
he thought in despair. He pulled out his sword from its saddle harness, but it was an empty gesture. He couldn't get close enough to any of his attackers to use it without killing himself in the process. Then, for a moment, the entire world seemed to slow down around him. The strange mental fog that had possessed him at the tree was suddenly gone; each thought in his head became crystal clear and focused.

It was said that one of the gifts of the
lyr
was that of a common consciousness. That a
lyr
who died in the service of the gods might bequeath memories of his death to his kin, for the sake of the greater battle. If so, then let that be his last act. He focused his attention on his attackers, drinking in every detail of their appearance—their race, their uniforms, their weaponry—inscribing it all as deeply into his memory as he could. Who was to say if the legends were true, or if his father's blood alone was enough to give him access to the
lyr
's special powers? Time seemed to hold still as he studied his enemy, so maybe that was a good sign. Perhaps his death would not be in vain.

Then he heard a voice order, “Dismount!” and time resumed its normal pace.

He slid from his saddle, his left leg almost collapsing under him as it hit the ground. Apparently he'd taken an arrow in his thigh during his meditation; only now did he feel the burning sensation of it. With effort he managed to stand upright, gritting his teeth against the pain. They would see no weakness in him, he swore. He would not give them the pleasure of seeing weakness in him.

Several men stepped between the close-set stakes and walked toward him. His grip tightened on his sword, but he did not raise it up. They could easily have taken him down with a barrage of arrows with no risk to themselves; the fact that they were approaching him on foot instead might mean they did not intend to kill him after all.

Then something struck him on the back of the head, sending the world spinning. He tried to turn to face his attacker, but his wounded leg wouldn't support the twisting motion; a second blow landed as he fell to his knees in the stream bed.
Remember this,
he thought to the
lyr,
as his vision began to fail him.
Avenge me!

The roar of blood filled his ears as a third blow fell, then there was only darkness.

T
HE GREAT tent gleamed in the sunlight, brilliant white beneath a clear blue sky. From the central poles flew golden banners emblazoned with the two-headed hawk of House Aurelius, snapping in the wind as if to make sure that they were noticed. The side poles were topped with finials in the shape of a hawk taking flight; in the bright morning sunshine the polished golden feathers were almost too bright to gaze upon.

Of similar brightness was the company gathered inside. Male and female, young and old, there were too many in attendance to count, and all were dressed in their finest silks. Princes and nobles stood with their households, family and attendants, all clad in their heraldic colors, so that it was possible to judge the size of every retinue in a single glance. Their colors—and their wealth—dazzled the eye.

The only ones missing from the crowd—and they were noticeable by their absence—were the priests. The pantheistic faiths of the region were not happy about Salvator's elevation. Not happy at all. Who could predict whether this monk-turned-king might take it upon himself to cleanse the High Kingdom of its many temples? Danton Aurelius had been a ruthless man, sometimes even a brutal one, but at least he had steered clear of any interference with religion.
I have enough enemies already without pissing on the gods,
Danton used to say. Not so his son. Salvator's god was known to be a jealous, vindictive deity who acknowledged no rival to his power. The last time mankind had angered him he had brought the First Age of Kings to its knees—or so the Penitents claimed—and nearly wiped out the human race in doing so. The only thing that kept him from throwing his weight around now was the limited size of his following; a faith born of guilt and self-denial was limited in its appeal to the masses. But with a Penitent monk about to claim man's greatest empire, that picture could easily change. No, the priests of other religions were not happy about Salvator's elevation at all, and those who were attending the coronation stayed far to the back of the crowd and tried not to draw attention to themselves.

At one end of the tent was a grand dais, with two sets of silk-cushioned chairs flanking a single throne. Those who had been to one of Danton's formal courts would recognize that the throne was his, and would know that the personal emblems of all the ruling families of the High Kingdom had been worked into its intricate carvings. It was a large and heavy piece, as Danton had been large and heavy, and it stood upon a small secondary dais of its own, high enough above the throngs of guests that one could see it even from the back row.

It was time.

A line of trumpeters that stood the length of the great tent split the air with a sharp fanfare; immediately all chatter was silenced. A herald whose tabard was emblazoned with the double-headed hawk stepped up to the dais and struck his staff upon it three times, producing a booming sound that filled the sunlit space. He waited until all eyes were upon him, and then announced, in a voice that carried clear to the back of the hall, “Her Royal Highness, Shestia Aurelius Casca.” Normally there would have been a long string of titles to follow that one, but today those other titles did not matter. Those who sat upon the royal dais were Salvator's blood kin, family of the deceased High King, and that was the only position that mattered.

Gwynofar's youngest daughter entered the hall from the far end on the arm of her husband and walked the length of its central aisle by his side. She had inherited her mother's delicate build but she held herself with a pride and a presence that would have made her father proud. The couple was halfway down the aisle when the next of the family was announced—Tesire Aurelius Signaste—who progressed down the aisle in her turn. As each of Gwynofar's daughters reached the royal dais their husbands released their hands, allowing them to ascend to their seats alone. Thus had the line of Aurelius done for centuries, when leadership passed from one generation to the next.

Watching her fourth son Valemar announced next, Gwynofar tried not to think about all the deaths that had made this ceremony necessary. Tried not to remember the recent funerals for Danton, Rurick, and Andovan, and the three days of official mourning that followed. Hundreds of people had filed past the polished caskets, paying their respects. The bodies that had been repaired and preserved by witchery so that all three men looked as if they were sleeping peacefully and had not in fact died violently at the hands of their own family and guards. Salvator in his priestly attire had offered up prayers that were singularly moving, attesting to a kind of emotive power she had never known he was capable of. How Gwynofar had wept those nights, as all the sorrow of the past month overwhelmed her! How she had wished she might awaken to discover that the deaths of her husband and sons were no more than a bad dream and the Souleater's flight a mere fantasy!