Chiyo gave a low whistle. “Looks like there were a lot more followers of Obsidian than of the Prysm.”
Vancien shook his head. “Could there be that many more gone to the Chasm than to Kynell? Maybe it’s just that we’re all bottled up inside this city.”
“Yes, but that bottling may save us,” Amarian responded. “If we can keep those Chasmites coming through that gate, then the Risen Ones can slice them down as they come.”
“And if we can’t?”
“We have to,” Chiyo said. “I suspect the enemy’s next move will be to—”
There was movement in the tree line.
“Look there!” Vancien said, pointing to the trees to the south.
“And to the north!”
With a roar, hundreds of Risen Ones raced from the trees to meet the army. It was Ruponi’s men to the south and Brag the Risen Sentry’s men to the north. They were not a large force, even combined, but they charged with such intensity that the leading half of Obsidian’s army had to slow to turn and face them. At almost the same moment, the Risen Ones of the city pushed the last of the Sentries and fennels out. The would-be invaders tripped over themselves in their retreat, only to be held down by the Risen Ones who were fast on their tail. Soon the entire Prysm army was in the field, their backs to the wall and their faces toward the Chasmites.
The Obsidian force had its hands full dealing with Ruponi and Brag. When the Sentries and fennels fell back into them, they stopped completely. A few moments passed and then the Risen Ones from the gate smashed into them, causing the whole line to shudder.
“Whoo-hoo!” Bedge shouted, unable to contain herself. “Whoo-hoo for the light-god!”
Vancien shared her joy and cheered right along with her. Amarian and Chiyo watched in tense silence. It looked as if the Prysm forces were gaining ground. The Chasmites were stumbling in upon themselves, hemmed in as they were on three sides. Then a large groan pierced the air: another panel of the wall was falling. It came down with a crash, trapping not a few struggling combatants underneath it. And over it poured yet another column of Chasmites, twice the size of the one that had gone before.
The Prysm had no more reserves. Before they could disentangle themselves and retreat, the column was upon them. As Vancien and the others watched, the bright figures who were their friends, allies, and last hope disappeared under the Obsidian tide.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Once the first column of Chasmites had begun their march, Gair found it a simple task to blend in. All he had to do was keep step with the others, careful not to get out of line and attract the attention of the officers with the whips. Then, whenever a soldier unable to control himself would get out of line, he would take advantage of the distraction to slip further into the ranks.
Up close, the Chasmites were even more grotesque than he had imagined. Their agitated state was so constant that he had to fight the feeling that he himself was also tormented. The females were the worst. Their eyes would roll back, their heads would jerk to one side, and they would let out a screech of terror and fury that could still the blood of any living thing. Then they would take to scratching their arms with their long, pointed nails until a mortal would have bled. Gair tried his best to avoid eye contact with them; one mistaken look had almost exposed him. The woman (if she could be called such a thing) had met his gaze, then ran toward him with blinding speed. She fell at his feet, begging for mercy and cursing him at the same time. He stepped backward through the ranks as fast as he could, but she followed him on hands and knees. Only when he turned his back and refused to make further eye contact did she stop chasing him. When he looked again, she was gone, replaced by just another row of her twitching colleagues.
How he would be able to find Verial in this mess, he did not know. He could see the barrier wall in the distance—one great panel had already fallen. Once he passed through it, he knew there would be no hope of escaping the battle. He had to march against the tide without getting himself noticed.
He had made it through almost the entire width of the column when he noticed that another massive column was forming off to his right. This column, about thirty yards away, was not yet moving. He hazarded a look behind him. If Verial was in this group with him, she was marching along just like the others. He suspected that such was not the case: Zyreio would be keeping a close eye on her. Gair doubted if he would risk her being lost to anyone less than himself.
That meant she was most likely in that other column. He looked again across the expanse of land. The remains of the camp stretched between the two groups. There were not any tents to speak of, since the Chasmites did not sleep, but there were the charred remains of some siege engines along with other, intact machines that were no longer in use. It might just be possible to move from engine to engine without being detected. And perhaps if he were detected, he could pass himself off as one of the troops, though he shuddered at the thought. He was having a difficult enough time scratching, cringing, and gesticulating at the rate of the others; he could not imagine trying to spit out the proper combination of venom and groveling that would be required if he encountered an officer. Still, there was no time like the present. Kynell had been with him so far. He had no doubt that the Prysm god would see him through to the end, whatever the end may be.
He waited until they were a few paces from the burnt remains of a trebuchet. After checking to make sure there was no officer nearby, he gave a great groan as if he couldn’t take it anymore, then marched behind the cover. If the other soldiers noticed him leave, they were too preoccupied with their own gnawing fear to call attention to him. He ducked himself down between the two long timbers that comprised the machine’s vertical shaft, crawling on hands and knees until he reached the blackened tip. Then he adopted a quick, agitated jog that took him to the next piece of debris. This strategy carried him almost to the other column. But as he prepared for the final leg, he heard a voice to his right.
“HEEY!! Sss—irrk!”
This call made no sense to him, but he turned, scratching his arm and averting his eyes. He decided not to speak unless commanded.
“Sss—irrk! Waahtt er yoo ‘oin ‘ere?”
The man’s speech, as Gair saw out of the corner of his eye, was affected by his habit of rubbing his sleeve across his face every few seconds. He performed this maneuver with a violent compulsion. And when his mouth was free to speak, he held his lower jaw in such tension that he could barely form words. Yet none of this seemed so important as the whip he clutched in his hand.
Gair did his best to mimic another Chasmite he had seen. He scratched his arm even harder. “I-I-I-I I’m goin’ t-t-there.” He pointed a cringing finger to the column.
“Sss—irrk! ‘errr yoo ss-ssignedddd?”
Gair could not tell what the man was saying, but he gave an educated guess.
“Oh, oh, oh yes, sir. I-I-I-I-I w-w-was sent. I was sent. Ss-sir.”
The man pushed his sleeve across his face again, jutted out his lower jaw even further, and raised his whip.
“Sss-irrk! ‘en yoo’d BETTER G-GO!!”
Gair took the hint and set off running toward the column, not daring to look behind him. Since he did not feel the whip across his back, he assumed he had been dismissed. With relief, he blended into the ranks, careful not to push anyone out of line yet determined to make it through to Verial, wherever she was. The task was more difficult than before since the column was not moving. Yet the stationary position made the Chasmites even more agitated than normal, so between the cocking heads, jerking knees, and flexing arms he was able to dodge among them. At one point, to his surprise, he heard what sounded like a reasonable conversation. There was a woman and a man standing not too far from him. The first was flicking his pointer finger against his thumb while the second rolled her shoulders over and over until Gair thought she would lose her balance. But she spoke as normally as any woman he had ever heard.
“I believe you’re over-thinking this, Martin.”
The Chasmite named Martin flicked his finger. “How is that possible? My thinking creates the reality. It’s all perception.”
“The perception is yours, of course,” the woman interjected. “Not mine.”
Finger-flick. “Never said it was. Anguish is intensely personal. It can’t be shared.”
“Just like love,” she responded, rolling her shoulder and digging her toe into the ground. “Love personifies you. But it needs an Other.”
Martin shrugged. “Just like anguish—they are the same. But they’re not based on external realities. They’re only perception.”
Gair shook his head. He had followed the speech of the officer better than he understood the conversation of these two. He left them to their debate in order to push further in. The sea of Chasmites seemed endless. No matter where he went, he seemed to encounter the same combination of specimens: they were either drooling and mutilating themselves, shrieking the foulest of language, or rationally reducing everything meaningful to nothingness. It took repeating the words of the Ages to himself over and over for him to maintain his sanity and his purpose.
After an eternity of searching, he saw one figure taller than the rest. He looked as if he were perched on a beast of some sort, perhaps a voyoté. Since this was the first shape in the Obsidian army to stand out, he headed towards it, feeling his heart sink deeper within him as he went. As he suspected, he was soon a stone’s throw away from Zyreio himself. Not that the figure looked at all like the man they had encountered in the woods. This character was sitting on a voyoté—tall, robust, the very picture of a genial king. Verial stood beside him.
As Gair watched, Zyreio tried to engage her in conversation.
“Come, lady,” he roared, but in a friendly manner. “What do you think of me now? Don’t you see that I command this world, even as I command my own self? Nothing escapes my attention or my grasp.” He flexed a gloved hand and gave a wide smile. “Don’t you see that my hand extends to the ends of Rhyvelad? Come now. Call me your king.”
Verial said nothing. Nor did she look at him.
Brave girl,
Gair thought to himself.
Zyreio did not seem troubled by her reticence. He reached down and cuffed her on the ear. Her face turned red, which caused him to laugh some more. “So quiet, my dear? Maybe I have wasted time giving you to my Advocates. I should have kept you to myself. All of these inhabitants of the Chasm are
so
dreary,” he sighed. “A little bit of living flesh would be a nice treat.”
Verial blushed even harder. Gair had seen enough. It was obvious that Zyreio wasn’t planning on letting her out of his sight. That meant that if Gair were going to rescue her, it would have to be out in the open. Indeed, Gair was not so sure Obsidian could not see him even now.
“You know, my little pet,” Zyreio was prattling on, “I’ve lost many good men in this fight. Oh, yes. My one-time Advocate. Well, you know what’s going to happen to that one. And then there’s the little turncoat. The turnling, I call him.” He chuckled at his own joke. “Once upon a time, the turnling decided to betray his master. But then the turnling got too big for his boots and he thought he
was
the master—of a sort, you understand. Well, this little turnling made quite a fool of himself, so I hear. I haven’t had the chance to take care of him yet, of course, but someday I’ll guide my little waif again.”
Gair shuddered at the speech. This new guise of Zyreio’s was even more disturbing than the last. He was grateful now more than ever that Corfe was under Kynell’s protection. Yet he wondered what Zyreio meant about Corfe thinking he was the master. . .he twitched extra hard to distract himself. It was Zyreio’s tongue that had corrupted all of Rhyvelad, after all. Now was not the time to start believing what it said.
Gair watched as Zyreio continued to talk. He was putting on quite the show, gesturing with his arms, laughing deep belly laughs, and sparkling with manly health. What was he trying to accomplish? Was he trying to win her over? Then, before his eyes, the lord of Obsidian changed form. Whereas once there was a hearty, beefy king, now there was a grizzled young man with a scarred face, long hair, and misshapen legs. Gair found himself looking at his mirror image.
The drastic change elicited Verial’s attention. Her quick glance showed a flash of such radiant anticipation that Gair knew there was still hope.
“So this is what you want, my silent consort? I figured as much. Perhaps if I dismount and drag myself over to you.” The mock Gair stiffly climbed down from the voyoté and limped over to his prey. “I have given you many forms, Verial. And I have tried to be nice, to show you I am not all bad. But I don’t understand your hesitation. You have made your choice, otherwise why would you be here?”
Of all the words he had spoken, these hit their mark. She was shaking all over and from under her breath, Gair thought he heard her say Kynell’s name.
Zyreio heard it too. “What did you say?” he purred.
Tears streamed down her face as she trembled harder. She looked just like a child who had gone off with a stranger and now wanted to go home. “I want Kynell now.”
In the blink of an eye, Zyreio had slipped back into the short, greasy man they had encountered in the woods. “Kynell, you say?” he sniveled. “Funny, all this time, I could have sworn you wanted him.” He waved a hand in Gair’s direction. The Chasmites among whom Gair had been hiding shuffled to the side and he stood exposed.