Duty (Book 2) (30 page)

“It has brightened up nicely,” Fenna said. Gen took a big bite of a potato, knowing he’d have ample time to chew it.

“Indeed,” Geoff returned, face aglow, “it is as I said. A ray of sunshine in the middle of the storm! What a paradise we have found in the midst of our gloom. Why, I’d break out into song if I didn’t think Maewen would put an arrow through my throat before the first verse was over. But what a song it will make! Imagine the symbolism! Overcoming hardship, pressing on in our duty through dark and distress, striving ever upward to arrive in a blessed land in the mountains where sunshine and peace prevail. I can feel the words coming already! Tell me what you think:

   
Rain and mud, dark and fog,

    Don’t look down. Press on, press on,

    Drenched gray wood and gloomy bog,

    Don’t look back. Walk on, walk on.

“We didn’t go through a bog, at least technically,” Gen interjected through his mouthful of stew. Geoff turned indignant.

“Surely, Gen, you—you of all people—realize that this song would not be historical but metaphorical in nature. I am trying to represent the journey of life, not merely our travels.”

“Forgive me; muse on.”

    While hard the way, steel your heart,

    The blessing comes though long concealed.
      The rain will stop and clouds depart:

    The earned reward to you revealed.

    For every step of our distress,

    For every hope and smile undone,

    God gives to us a sweet redress

    Where rivers flow through fields of sun.

Gen watched bemused as Geoff, lost within his mind, waved his arm around to a tune only he could hear. Fenna covered her mouth to hide grin.

“I’ve got it!” Geoff finally announced.

A deep thud shook the wagon. Gen dropped his plate. Something big and heavy bounced and skidded by, carrying with it flesh, blood and shards of wood as it rammed into the wagon two ahead of his before landing with a heavy splash in the river. Geoff fell to the ground, hand over his head. Gen jumped down and drew his sword.

Shouts and screams from the camp drew Gen’s eyes there. A narrow path, strewn with carnage, showed where the boulder had impacted and hurtled along its deadly course before reducing three tents and a supply wagon to rubble. Eyes darted about for signs of an enemy, but there were none. Shouts of “Catapult!” ran through the camp as Torbrand yelled excitedly for his troops to prepare for battle. Gen knew his duty was with the Chalaine, but Fenna sat unmoving on the wagon.

“Geoff!” Gen said, giving the bard a kick. “Get up! You and Fenna stay in the wagon and keep your heads below the sideboard. I must see to the Chalaine!”

The notion of protecting Fenna infused Geoff with enough iron to get up and help her into the back of the wagon. Gen turned and sprinted forward, watching the sky. Ethris emerged from his tent, Mirelle close beside him, and gathered the Mages to him, barking orders.

“Another one!” someone shouted. Gen looked toward the sky. Arcing over the hill was another boulder of impossible size. Gen knew immediately that a catapult could not throw something so big so far. Men scattered as the massive stone impacted near the front of the caravan, tearing through a line of cavalrymen struggling onto their mounts. The horses screamed and men died as the boulder crushed their ranks. Gen arrived at the Chalaine’s wagon to find Jaron standing on top watching the hill closely.

“This is Mikkik’s work!” he yelled. “We need to get the carriage back to the tree line.”

“We can’t go without the rest of the caravan!” Gen shouted back. “Splitting the Chalaine away from the main body could be what they want!”

Gen stood at the side of the carriage, eyes fixed on the hill. The Mages spread away from Ethris at his command, forming a line along the center of the meadow. Ethris raised his staff when they were in position, and they began to incant in unison. As they did, another boulder arced over the hill. Gen readied himself—it careened toward the middle of the caravan. Just before it could hit, a faint wall of air formed ahead of the Magicians, and the boulder slammed into it with terrific force. The Mages nearest the point of impact fell to their knees but held the wall.

The rest of the Dark Guard surrounded the carriage as the Shadan shouted for the caravan to move forward toward the bridge. Most of the horses, however, had been unhitched. Torbrand ordered all empty wagons be left and for all to press on. Slowly, one wagon here and another there, the caravan sluggishly moved.

Another boulder slamming into the magical defense tore Gen’s attention away from the road. The Magician there had fallen, exhausted but not dead, leaving a large gap in the wall. A howl, distant, deep and loud reverberated through the camp.

With an earthshaking step, something unfathomably huge crested the hill. A gigantic armored head rose first, followed by a body equally protected. It was muscular and was at least fifteen times taller than a man. Its crude armored shirt had been fashioned from a collection of breastplates, greaves, and helms, all from Rhugothian soldiers. Only its own helm had been tailored for it, the rest of its ensemble dangling hodge-podge about its body. Dark gray splotches spread irregularly over the dun skin of its muscular arms and legs. A heavy brow shadowed deep, large eyes. Cries of terror filled the camp as it bellowed and pounded toward them with steps that set the ground to quivering.

So heavy was the armor upon it, that it slumped and walked slowly. Only its arms and lower half of its legs were free of protection, and as it strode forward it loosed another boulder it had reserved, clenched in its hand. Horses pulled at their restraints and screamed. Again the magical shield held, but already the Magicians seemed spent, all leaning heavily on their staves and laboring to breathe. At the Shadan’s command, some twenty mounted knights with lances charged forward, not armored due to haste. They formed a wedge, riding fast. Other knights prepared themselves with all the celerity they could manage, and the foot soldiers sprinted to form ranks behind the Magicians.

Upon seeing the mounted assault, the giant stopped and watched them come with a dull curiosity, mouth hanging open stupidly. To Gen’s horror, it simply fell forward onto its stomach when the wedge got close enough. The impact on the ground forced Gen to steady himself against the carriage. All but four of the knights were crushed underneath the behemoth’s weight, the other four shaken from their saddles. Horses screamed again, and several bolted, pulling stakes and running wild through the crowd. The Chalaine’s carriage moved forward, Ulney fighting to keep the horses under control.

Slowly the giant rose to its feet, chest and legs spattered with blood. Several corpses hung from its armor, and these it wiped off with a broad sweep of its hand. With another howl it came forward, steps thundering ever louder. Gen swallowed hard as it turned its gaze toward the Chalaine’s carriage and stepped toward it. The Magicians dropped their shield and pulled back into the ranks of the infantry, all save Ethris, who remained rooted as the monstrosity clanged and lumbered toward him.

Ethris lifted his staff high, and a bolt of white light streaked from the sky and hit the giant’s helm. At first nothing happened and the giant continued unabated, coming closer to the carriage and pulling away from Ethris. The spot on the monster’s helm where the light was focused turned orange as the white beam heated the metal.

The giant screamed in agony, a sound so terrible that the horses on the Chalaine’s carriage bolted, throwing Jaron to the ground. Gen sprinted and managed to grab hold of the bars on the side and hang on. The driver sawed at the reins, trying to pull the horses in, but the animals edged closer to the giant, swerving away from the river.

With massive hands the giant grabbed its helmet, working frantically to pull it off its head as the first volley of arrows from the archers peppered its massive face. Ethris fell to one knee, staff still aloft. The giant continued to bellow, unable to pry the helmet off. In unquenchable pain it fell to its knees, soldiers diving away as it sank down. The horses pulling the Chalaine’s wagon, feeling their danger, veered straight toward the river, scattering the soldiers in their path. Smoke poured from the gaps in the giant’s helmet, and it pitched forward, finally flinging the white-hot armor from its head.

Gen flinched helplessly as the discarded helmet slammed into the back of the carriage, pitching it forward. His vision blurred as he struggled to hang on to the bars, the momentum finally pulling them out of his grasp. He flailed as he flew through the air, hearing the heavy splash of horse and carriage moments before finding himself in the stiff current of the cool, dark water. Using all his training to stay calm, he fought off the disorientation and found his way up, cresting the water. The Chalaine’s carriage drifted slightly ahead of him, floating lightly on the river. Due to its size, the current pulled strongly upon it. The horses and driver floated dead in the water nearby, wagon tongue broken.

With all the strength he could summon, Gen swam for the carriage. The Im’ Tith told him the Chalaine was alive and only slightly bruised. He knew the carriage had magical properties to protect its passenger, but Gen was still surprised to see that it appeared as if it hadn’t even been struck. It also didn’t seem to fill with water, and it outpaced him despite his best efforts. The falls roared ever nearer, carriage drifting straight toward the steep drop.

Gen glanced back at the caravan. The entire line was in chaos. Most of the Dark Guard rode along the shore, keeping pace with the carriage in the water. A single Magician astride a horse flanked them, incanting. Behind them, the situation deteriorated rapidly. While the giant lay vanquished, a large group of Uyumaak poured over the hill toward the shattered camp. Chertanne, Mirelle, the Pontiff, and others galloped along the road away from the meadow.

A cracking noise turned Gen’s attention forward. A small island of ice entrapped the Chalaine’s wagon. The Magician who cast the spell fell forward on his horse, energy spent. Gen scrambled onto the ice and slipped and slid to the carriage door. The great bridge loomed above them, casting a shadow across the water in the late afternoon. The booming of the falls deafened him. High above them the Uyumaak ran across the bridge toward the fray. They didn’t seem to notice the carriage below.

“Chalaine!” Gen gasped as he reached the carriage door. “Are you all right?”

The Chalaine came to the bars. “Get me out, Gen!” she yelled. “Get me out!”

Gen could barely hear her over the rumbling of the falls as he fumbled for the key at his neck. As he pushed the key into the lock, the ice to his left cracked, a large chunk sliding away. Gen pulled the key away.

“Gen! What are you doing?! Get me out! Please!” Gen assessed the situation while the powerful current continued to break the ice. While they weren’t far from shore, he knew they could not swim to it. The Chalaine had never been allowed near deep water in her life, and her thick robes would weigh her down in the water.

“Gen!” she screamed. A crack formed at his feet as the entire ice sheet floated toward the falls. Decided, he thrust the key in, turned the lock, and jumped inside, pulling the door closed behind him. He had to trust Ethris’s craft.

The Chalaine grabbed him. “We have to get out!”

“We can’t! We’d never make the shore. The falls are too close and the current too strong!”

Gen searched the wagon, hastily arranging the pillows and blankets that lay strewn about. Luckily, the large chest carrying the Chalaine’s belongings was bolted to the floor. Working quickly, he ordered the Chalaine to lie in the pillows and he wrapped her in every soft thing he could find. Before he could finish, the carriage tilted forward, throwing him against the front wall, the bundled Chalaine pinning him to it. He wrapped his arms around the screaming Chalaine as the carriage fell, tumbling slowly end over end.

The ancient boughs of black oaks cast an uneven shadow upon the figure sitting stiffly on bulging roots below massive, mos
s-
covered limbs. The dim of Goreth Forest suited the mood of one who passed his days in unending torture. Here he had hidden for centuries, waiting patiently for the light of Trys to break anew into the starscape above and signal for him to leave his hovel of seclusion and return to his quest.

Mikkik cowered deep within this sylvan fortress he had created to protect himself just before Trys waned fully, the puissant moon’s light eclipsed by the power of the meddlesome Millim Eri. Without Trys’s light, the creative power with which Eldaloth had endowed him faded and died. How he regretted ever coveting that power. How he regretted his own ambition. But regret accomplished nothing and repentance was impossible. He had to cut the lingering life of Eldaloth out of Ki’Hal, to murder the living presence of the God he had slain but whose essence still lingered in Elde Luri Mora. And he had the means to do it.

He had entrusted only one servant with the fullness of his plan. Only she could approach him here, and she was late, as usual. He desperately awaited her report, as much for the information as for the distraction. In speaking with her he could stifle the continual, aching scream that only he could hear and silence the heartbeat he thought would die with Eldaloth in the Plains of Orentan. The scream was Ki’Hal’s unending lament for its slain maker; the heartbeat, the essence of Eldaloth’s life that emanated from Elde Luri Mora. They tormented him even here in his fortress of cruel trees. Together, the scream and heartbeat drove him mad like a burning sun that never set.

He laughed to think of the pretentious pride of the nations he had massacred in the first wars, fighting bravely against a foe they thought sought to dominate them. To think themselves important enough that one should wish to dominate them or to think that he would feel any satisfaction in doing so was a joke only he could possibly understand. He did not want their obedience. He did not covet their lands. They held no treasure he cared about save one—the feeble power of their otherwise worthless blood.

The wind stirred the branches of the tree above him, warning him that someone had entered his demesne.

She comes at last!

Mikkik leaned against the trunk and considered the sword lying upon his knees. He had fashioned it a duplicate of the one he had used to cut down his master so many years ago. While the consequences lay torturous and heavy upon him, he could not even fathom contrition, only escape. To that end, before the Shattering, he had pulled the power of the blood of the masses fallen on the battlefield to fashion another weapon, to finish what he had so fatefully started.

The blade was not powerful enough by half yet, and he waited anxiously to raise up more creatures of war and begin the bloodshed anew. With the sword’s power, he would level Elde Luri Mora. Then that accusatory finger that he could not slap away would finally fall and blessed silence would balm his weary mind.

Joranne’s proximity reminded him of more immediate concerns. The Millim Eri had plotted to return Eldaloth to the world, though he knew it a farce. Eldaloth he had annihilated, and all that remained of him lived on in Elde Luri Mora. When news of the prophecy had first reached his ears, Mikkik had scoffed, for the Millim Eri appeared to be foisting some trickery upon the nations. But he could not ignore their cunning or the power within their blood, and if they could somehow create a being to stand against him, he had to respond to the threat.

To that end he had created the Ilch as they had prophesied, a creature of his own blood and power, a creature to end the threat against him before it had a chance to start. But again the Millim Eri proved cunning, and in his weakened state he had no means to counter their treachery. So now his own device was turned against him, aiding the cause the Ilch had been created to crush.

“My Lord Mikkik,” Joranne greeted him confidently, and he could sense an eagerness in her voice. “I have returned with strange tidings.”

Mikkik considered her. The travel stained clothes and frail human frame concealed the magnitude of the gifts he had bestowed upon her. Only the Millim Eri masters and himself held greater power than she, and in his current debilitation, it would take all his effort to destroy her.

“Is he dead then, Joranne? I must assume that he is or you would not have dared return to me.”

“He is not dead my Lord. He. . .”

Mikkik gestured and a ring of air constricted her throat and strangled the rest of her words. Joranne’s face constricted, turning red. Her thoughts sped into his mind.

Hear me, my Lord! See what the Ilch does!

Hurriedly she unloaded what she had gleaned from Gen’s mind into her master’s, and as the scenes played before them both, the invisible noose around her throat loosened and then released. For the first time in years Mikkik stood, kicking away the dry brown leaves gathered about him. A menacing smile broke upon his face.

“You have done rightly, Joranne,” Mikkik praised. “I could not have devised a plan so clever. The prophecy is ruined, undone by the very people who gave it! Who could have imagined it? The Ilch has sown more contention and division as a man of principle than the Ha’Ulrich in his pride and folly! I need fear the Ha’Ulrich no more than an insect. Gen, I could fear, but if I meet him, I can undo him no matter where the Millim Eri are hiding his animon.”

“What is your command, master?”

“One threat remains, Joranne. The Child. While you may help Gen to unwittingly sow his seeds of dissent, we must destroy the Chalaine. Without her, the Millim Eri will be frustrated. There will be no Child of prophecy and no threat to my work.”

“As you wish,” she said, “though the Millim Eri are tracking me and making movement difficult. May I suggest something?”

“What more is there to do, Joranne?”

And when Joranne told him her plan, Mikkik’s laugh, wicked and joyful, set the trees of Goreth Forest to twitching.

“I see that you approve?”

“Of course. And I will keep my promise, Joranne. When this is finished, you will return to ash no more.”