Oathkeeper (12 page)

“Easy, everybody! Easy!” Tyree called. “Here I was coming to say good-bye and every pointy-eared person around is dead-set on killing one another.” He laughed. “Guess it must be an odd or even day, right?” His eyes sparkled, under the brim of a wide hat, his voice warm and welcoming.

Yavi felt a flow of . . . something . . . reaching out from him, like his spirit was trying to convince hers to believe what he was saying and follow his instructions. Like her spirit would listen to any old human. Ha! Before she could ponder the feeling too much, the elemental roared:
Kill now!
in her mind.

Wait
, Yavi thought back, a little alarmed to be thinking to a spirit rather than speaking to it.
We might not need to hurt anyone.

Need?!
Furious at her failure to deliver the violence she had promised, the spirit hurled her at the obsidian floor of Oot. She caught herself with outstretched hands, bark on smooth marble. Surrendering control of her momentum to the force of the throw, Yavi rolled into one cartwheel then another. Burning off the extra speed in short, quick shifts of heel and palm, she skidded to a halt at the base of Kilke's statue with the two-headed god sneering down at her as if he meant to bend down and charge her with the massive horns of his remaining heads.

“I'm sorry, ishar-ama,” Yavi drew her heartbow, notching an arrow of spirit her fellow sentients could not see. “Maybe next time.”

Cheat!
It roared and charged.

Yavi fired one shot, grunting as she summoned a second arrow of spirit too close to summoning the first and let it fly as well. The first arrow went wild, crashing harmlessly against the central obelisk. Her second shaft struck home, piercing the midsection of the elemental, as it grew more physical.

“And that's why Mom always says to be twice and thrice certain before working with a predatory spirit,” Yavi chided herself. “Particularly an old one.”

Making as if to pull another spirit arrow from within, Yavi focused on showing no outward display of fear.
I am a confident source of kill kill kill
, she told herself.
Back off.

We are enemies now
, the spirit growled.
I will remember you
. Showering her with a burst of hail, the spirit hissed, retreated to the base of the obelisk, growing insubstantial once more.

“Everyone's staring at me, aren't they?” Yavi asked Kilke's statue over her shoulder. “Yep,” she answered her own question. If the human who'd preempted the fighting had had everyone's attention before her spat with the primal wind spirit, all eyes were on Yavi now. “Thanks.” She turned around and gave Kilke's leg a pat. “That's what I thought,” she told the statue.

She turned back to the center. They were still staring at her.

“What?” She waggled her ears to break the tension. “Some spirits don't like it when the battle plan changes and nobody dies.”

“Looks like you got it to calm down,” Tyree said with a smile. (How did he keep his teeth so white?) “Which is a great idea for all of us, homely and comely alike. I'm certain,” the human winked at Yavi and Rae'en, “you two can guess which category the three of us fall under.”

Calm down. Calm down. Calm down.

If Yavi concentrated, she could hear the words, like a voice repeated them over and over again in her mind. It wasn't the spirit. Yavi frowned at the captain (What cute dimples!). He'd helped Rae'en and Wylant escape from the Zaur a few days ago, but Yavi didn't know much more about him than that he'd been well-paid for it and had amazing dental hygiene.

The voice in her head was annoying, but she hadn't needed any help to shift out of shoot-and-stab formation. The Eldrennai guards did seem to need the assistance, though, so maybe it was a good thing Tyree was doing . . . whatever he was doing.

The Eldrennai guards also appeared to be more susceptible than she was to whatever magic the human was using.

Eldrennai never listen to what spirits have to say, so maybe it's a form of Long Speaking?
Yavi thought.

One of the Kingsguard looked perplexed, the other guards standing in varying stages of confusion and relief. A few sheathed their weapons.

Neither sparkly teeth nor power of persuasion appeared to work at all on the Aern. Rae'en stood, warpick at the ready, scowl on her face, doubled canines bared, her jade irises expanding to not quite banish the blacks of her eyes.

I can handle her
, Tyree's posture seemed to say, with a flash of his perfect grin and yet another wink.

Yep. This totally had to be Long Speaking or some brainacular power or other.

“Tell the stump ears, not me, Randall,” Rae'en growled.

“They're backing off.” Randall wiped a bead of sweat from his brow.

Back down, guys. Your king's sacrifice. Don't waste it. You've gotta burn the body and make preparations. Get news to the new king. Banquets and things, yeah?

Now that she was listening for it, the words came through even clearer except that they were more emotions than words. The complexity of the emotions made her render them into words to make sense of them, but they were definitely more feelings and impressions than verbal instructions. He had a nice mental voice now that she knew how to pick it out when it was aimed at her.

The guards sheathed their weapons, all save one. He stood, sword drawn, teeth gritted. “Which one of you is doing this?” He spun, cursing. “Is it you?” he leveled his sword at the man. “You're—”

Faster than she could follow, Randall (that was his first name, not Captain, right?) stepped inside the guard's reach, moving around and past in one smooth dance-like motion. A sound of metal on metal snicker-snacked in the unseen exchange, then the guard was falling. Pools of blood gushed from wounds to the guard's neck and inner thigh. Two wounds. Both fatal.

Dark-haired, handsome, and still smiling, Randall Tyree raised his hands in the air in don't-blame-me fashion. His billowy sleeves fell away from his wrists and down to his elbows as if to say “See, no weapons here.” Randall let his mouth gape open, feigning utter shock and befuddlement. The guards stared, first at him, then back at the injured guard, and in the space between glances, Yavi caught him flicking the blood from thin twin knives. Lowering his hands to his sides, he casually slapped the weapons over his wrists where they curled into two innocuous-looking bracelets just as the loose cuffs of his shirt fell neatly over them.

“What in Torgrimm's name?” Randall asked in convincing, but (to Yavi) obviously false, shock.

Why kill that guard and not the others?
Yavi wondered. Was it that the guard sensed Randall's voice in his head like she had? Also, what other weapons might the human be hiding? Did he have a battle-axe concealed in the black vest and matching trousers he wore? Did his brown leather boots turn into morning stars? Yavi eyed the gold belt buckle with particular distrust.

As she opened her mouth to ask him, a blast of elemental air magic hurled the remaining guards several feet back.

“Enough!” Wylant landed in their midst.

Yavi breathed a sigh of relief.

Crisis averted.

*

“But General,” a guard began.

“Stand down!” Wylant felt Vax's hilt in her hand, the weapon unsheathing himself, as his blade stretched and curved. Weight shifted incrementally until—what? Until Vax was sure she would support him—until she held the straight utilitarian sword shape Vax most often preferred.

“We are in the presence of our slain king!” Wylant's heart pounded in her chest, but she controlled her breathing, forcing it to measured pulls of air. “He died so that you might have some hope of ending your lives somewhere other than in the stomach of an Aern. Send a runner to inform Port Ammond.”

“You Aern-loving—” He swung; Wylant sidestepped and struck, and he pirouetted headless to the ground.

“Now,” she told the other guards. “I will stand vigil over the king.”

“You killed one of your own—” Yavi's disbelief was typical for her youth, but Wylant did not have time for it. From what she had overheard, Rae'en had set a strict timetable and there was no room for delay.

“Thank you for your service to the Oathbreakers and the Aern, Princess Yavi,” Wylant interrupted. “Please allow me to convey the deep gratitude of the Eldrennai on behalf of our kings old and new to the Vael for their long efforts to maintain the peace. If you would not mind informing Queen Kari that we will not be requiring a Vael representative in one hundred years, that the Grand Conjunctions have ended, I would be most appreciative.”

“Of course, but—”

“And you, Captain Tyree,” Wylant continued. “Your attempt at calming this down is most appreciated, but you have been well paid and it might be best if you took your leave, as well.”

Tyree's eyes flicked to Rae'en, sliding off of her as if he realized there would be no assistance from her.

“Kholster Wylant.” Tyree smiled, eyes shooting daggers before the smile took over and reached them as well. Gods, but the man was practiced. He nodded to Rae'en. “Sugar bosom, I guess our marriage will have to wait.”

Turning on his heel, he gave a parting wave to the transfixed Yavi, who was mouthing the words “sugar bosom” in mild shock, and was gone.

“You think,” Yavi started, pulling her attention away from the departing human and his unarguably pleasant posterior, “I mean. It's really over? I just go home?”

“The Conjunction has ended,” Wylant said.

“And there won't be another one,” Rae'en spat.

“Then, I guess I'll take my leave as well.” Yavi's ears flattened for a few heartbeats before she got them under control. “I'll convey news to Queen Kari about what has happened. Obviously the Aern and the Aiannai are welcome to visit The Parliament of Ages so long as they come in peace and friendship. Long may our peoples know peace.”

“Thank you.” Wylant wiped the blood staining Vax's blade onto the pants of the dead guard. “Will you be needing an escort back to The Parliament of Ages?”

CHAPTER 10

KINGS DIE...

In death Grivek fled. Catching a glimpse of bone armor out of the corner of his eye, Grivek leapt as far and fast as he could, soaring away from Oot, beyond the sky, and into a gulf of never-ending black.

Nothing
, he thought, head turning side-to-side seeking light.
Nothing. Has he destroyed everything? Has Kholster—?
Flailing out for anything to grant him purchase and halt his progress into the seeming void, Grivek felt cold creeping into his essence.

Is this the end?
Chilled to the core, he wondered. Was this his punishment? A hell of darkness? Had Kholster scarcely paid him any attention at all before hurling him straight into the Bone Queen's clutches? Just a flash of bone before eternity of night and—

“You can't run.” A voice broke the silence. Quiet. Hard. Not indifferent, but . . . disappointed? Grivek squinted into the void. “Other way, dead king.”

That voice. Kholster.

A hand.

Hard.

Gauntleted. Also Kholster.

“I can let you run that way if you want, but I have no clue why you'd want to wander in the Dragonwaste. There is nothing beyond the Outwork.”

“Wh-what?” Grivek stopped, his view spinning as the death god turned him to face a luminous sphere hanging in the yawning dark. Graven images of Jun the builder covered, no—comprised—its gray surface. One statue after another, interlinking seamlessly.

“The Outwork. Nothing living beyond it in this realm. Only me.” Kholster glared at him from within a warsuit of pale bone, its helm a skull-like replica of Bloodmane as if the roaring irkanth's head had been stripped of flesh, leaving the skull exposed and angry. “I am pondering it. Why were you running? I've never seen a soul go flying off like that. Where did you think you were going?”

“I—I died.”

“You got a warpick through the neck.” Kholster laughed. “That's all it takes for most. What of it?”

“Um . . .” Grivek looked into the crystalline eyes of the warsuit. “Can I please see your face?”

“This is my face, dead king,” Kholster answered, reaching up to touch Harvester's irkanth skull helm. “But if you mean you wish to see me without my helmet,” the death god let out a long breath as if forcing himself to be civil, “I am willing to comply with your request. My daughter did just kill you.”

Grivek gazed upon the face of the Harvester.

“You look . . .” Grivek had expected to see something different, a wizened, dried-out husk or some other sickly, transformed being, but Kholster stared at him with unchanged amber pupils, rimmed with jade, in a sea of obsidian. Bronzed healthy skin. Hair and beard the same fiery red, cut close like that of a Hulsite mercenary.

“I look?” Kholster grinned, baring his doubled canines wolfishly.

“Unchanged.”

“Why would being a god change my appearance?” Kholster peered down at the sphere, his gaze or some effort of will drawing them closer to its surface. They passed through the stone shell emerging into a sky of lights with another sphere below them, blue and green and . . .

“Barrone!” Grivek gasped. He could just make out the Eldren Plains, but he was surprised to see other continents: the fabled home of the Issic-Gnoss, at the top of the world—a land of ice. He gaped at a massive broken band surrounding the world below. “What? What is that?”

“None of your concern,” Kholster answered. “You died. I came. You ran. I followed. Now you wish to talk and I'm willing to do so, but not about things you won't remember in a candlemark. What do you want, Grivek, son of Zillek, ruler of the throne of Villok?”

“Can you . . .” Grivek looked down at Barrone as dawn broke over the surface. Somehow the suns looked smaller than he'd expected. “Can you forgive me?”