The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) (67 page)

*****

Linciard paced the assembly hall, attention screwed to the voices on the earhook.  Around him, half-armored soldiers milled and whispered, trying to get abreast of the situation.  The other officers were busy smacking laggards awake or assigning posts.

He had thrown on some armor by reflex, even though it was hard to do the buckles with his fingers spasming.  Every time he heard Rallant's voice, his blood ran cold; the tension and fear in it felt like knives.  There was nothing he could do, and he kept telling himself it was no different than hearing any fellow soldier in peril.  He couldn't let it affect him.

Yet still.

Through the open door of the training yard, Scryer Mako cursed furiously; something had happened to the portal.  The men who had been waiting to ferry the injured to the infirmary moved instead into the assembly hall, further packing it.  Linciard glanced them over: mostly archers and Shield Two, not his men.  The lancers had been dispatched to the stables by Benson's command.

He knew he should be there.  Suspended or not, he was one of them.  But Benson's glare had told him he wasn't welcome, and his hands insisted the same.

Best stay out of the way
, he thought bitterly as the crowd swelled.  Smoke and nervous sweat filled the hall, and every shift of position rasped chainmail against plate or knocked scabbards together, a slow cacophony of agitation.  He couldn't take it—not when he couldn't act—so he edged down the other hall toward the infirmary.  Maybe if the medic cleared him...

A few others had sought shelter here, straightening when they saw him.  Suspended or not, he still had rank, and acknowledged them brusquely.  The earhook had gone silent, and that raked on his nerves even worse than the reports.  His imagination drew horrors around the captain and Rallant.  Shadow-monsters, metal titans, goblins by the horde...

Faint voices reached him as he approached the infirmary.  Medic Shuralla's, and...?

Softer, sinuous—Messenger Cortine's.

“—seek to taint those given into my care,” he was saying.  “I will not allow it.”

“Don't come near me!”

“Even your False Light is a charade, woman.  You are Dark by nature.  I can see it."

“You're a madman!”

Linciard rounded the corner, concerned.  Priest and medic stood separated by an infirmary bed which Medic Shuralla had pulled away from the wall in self-defense.  She was on the far side, plump face a rictus of fear, red-and-white striped coat rumpled and hair-bun disarrayed as if someone had grabbed it.  She gripped the edge of the bed as if prepared to shove it at the priest, who stood still and tense on the other side.

All the beds were empty, the room lit by the arcane sigils on the walls.  A red line ringed the door-frame.  Linciard crossed it as the priest said, "There are ways to purify even those like you.  The cleansing flame, the embrace of the Palace..."

Medic Shuralla fixed on Linciard.  “Sir, make him stop this!”

“Messenger Cortine,” said Linciard warily.  The priest half-turned his head.  “We, uh, we need you with the men, to provide spiritual guidance while we struggle with the cult.”

For a moment Cortine was a statue, the very corner of a white eye visible to Linciard, his jaw and hands clenched tight.  Linciard shifted nervously.  He'd never seen a priest behave threateningly; they'd always seemed such gentle men.

Then Cortine nodded and turned.  “Of course, sergeant.  My apologies, it was not my intention to neglect my duties.  Has there been word from the fray?”

“Not much, Messenger.  The portal collapsed.  The lancers are heading out to the site.”

“Ah.  I should give them my blessing, then.  And you.”

Linciard stayed still as the priest reached unerringly to touch his brow.  His fingers were warm, like a brush of spring sunlight.  “Thank you, Messenger,” he mumbled.

“Of course.  Lead on, sergeant.”

"Ah...no, I'd best make sure the infirmary is ready.”

The priest regarded him with those featureless eyes, then nodded and stepped past with an offhand comment of, "We shall speak further, Medic."

As he disappeared around the corner, Medic Shuralla exhaled, round shoulders slumping, and turned a grateful look on Linciard.  "He tried to attack me.”

"He wouldn't—“  But it certainly looked like he had, so Linciard swallowed his words and moved to help shift the bed back into position.  "Priests get angry like anyone, I suppose."

"Not quite like anyone.  I don't understand how you can work for them."

"We don't.  We work for the army."

She favored him with one of those womanly expressions he knew as exasperated disapproval.  "And your army works for the Empire, which works for your Light."

"Well...yes, but—  Actually, no."  He frowned as he helped her push another disturbed bed back into place.  "I used to be in the Gold Army, and the Gold serves Wyndon more than the Empire.  The Sapphire serves Trivestes mostly—their General is always Trivestean.  Crimson is from everywhere, so maybe we're more Imperial than the others.  Our new General won't tell us crap, though, which angers the captain something fierce..."

He stopped, realizing he shouldn't be telling this to a heretic.

Shuralla's expression was quizzical.  "You don't follow the Imperial Light?"

"Uh."  He looked toward the door, uncertain.  But if she just wanted to know about him, she'd spent enough time stitching and bandaging him that he supposed she'd earned some trust.  "I do, but I'm not about to cut my bits off and don a robe, you know?"

"Cut your—"

"Yeah, they...  Well, that's the rumor."

"But you're a lay follower?"

"I suppose.  I got some schooling at a temple when I was a boy, so I know a few of the chants.  Uh, I light a Midwinter candle..."

She looked at him strangely.  "I thought you'd be more vehement."

"Why?  It's just boring rituals and raising the sun.  Don't tell anyone I said that.  My eldest sister is really religious—she's always on about the Long Darkness—but...after the fiftieth time we've talked about it, I'm done, so why can't we move on to more interesting things?"

"And your fellow soldiers?"

"I don't know.  The Drixi are fanatics and some of the Amands are really devout, but Amands take everything seriously.  And the specialists are...special.  But the rest of them?"  He shrugged.  "I think the Jernizen worship a lion, and who knows about the Brother Islanders?"

"And this is accepted?"

"Ignored.  For now, anyway.  New General might have other ideas."

"He is the Field Marshal and High Templar?"

"Yeah."

"That sounds like quite a convergence."

"He's been both for years.  —But I shouldn't speculate.  Do you need help with any..."  He started to gesture at the rest of the room, with its waiting beds and cupboards of supplies, and saw her flinch.  Only then did he realize she was still keeping a bed between them, and wondered what she thought of him.  How threatening he appeared even from that distance.  "I'm not useful for anything else,” he offered lamely.

"No, I have my own preparations to make," said Shuralla.  "But thank you.  You've been most helpful."

"Sure," said Linciard, and bobbed her a nod, then headed out the door.  Talking hadn't seemed problematic while he was doing it, but now he wasn't sure, and as he rejoined the mass of anxious men in the assembly hall, he felt the tension coil in his belly again.

The earhook was far too quiet.

*****

A brick popped from the wall, followed by a gout of dirty water.

“Oh crap,” said a soldier.  Captain Sarovy silently agreed.

They battled the metal elementals in a rough oblong, their backs to the two mages.  Voorkei struggled to keep a ward over their heads to defend from the bricks and other debris their upstairs assailants kept dropping, while Tanvolthene speed-enchanted swords—clapping his palms around them to form a stiff wedge of energy like an arcane chisel.  The spells only held for a blow or two, but with their support the infantrymen's swords managed to cut chips from the elementals rather than simply be blunted.

The ruengriin were more effective, though their methods concerned Sarovy.  Two had grabbed mallets from fallen militiamen and were pulverizing anything that stood up to them, but the rest tore at the elementals like animals, their illusions gone—the scales and plates beneath their armor revealed, their hands clawed, jaws unhinged.  Chunks of metal flew in all directions.

As did blood.  Sarovy saw a ruengriin clamp massive jaws around an elemental limb only to have spikes shoot out through his cheeks, lips and chin.  He tore the piece of metal off and spat it away in a gob of red.

Meanwhile, Sergeant Rallant had his sword and shield out but stood in the center, still radiating.  It was not light so much as
presence
, a sense of steadiness and a faint whiff of sweet.  Sarovy's nose said saccharine but his nerves said toxic.  The senvraka's illusion pendant had also failed, leaving his skin marbled and his eyes segmented.  Despite that, the men bunched around him as if for reassurance; Sarovy saw him shove and shield-push them toward their positions but they kept gravitating back.

At least it had kept them from panicking.

Another brick fell free, followed by a gush of grey water.  They were two floors underground in the West Ridge district, nowhere near the river, but the recent rains must have filled the Old Crown cisterns above them, and this basement had no exits.

What I wouldn't give for a map
, he thought, staring at the doorways above.  He had no idea which would lead out and which to a dead end.  Entering the warehouse from street-level would have given him a better idea of what to expect, and he almost regretted the portal.

As he watched, a pair of militiamen pushed a huge crate over the edge of the hole in the ground floor, sending it plummeting straight at him.  Three feet above his head, it hit a flaring orange barrier and smashed to flinders, sending a cascade of iron nails down the ward.

Several metal elementals broke off to gather the nails and lash them at the front-line soldiers.  They clattered on shields and armor and elicited a wave of curses.

Sarovy pulled back a bleeding man and pushed the ones around him to close the gap.  Several others knelt here in the middle, clutching mangled arms or punctured sides; two archers, out of arrows, played combat medic while the others finished their quivers or fought with short swords alongside the infantry.  A few stood guard to watch everyone's feet and stab any tendril of metal that tried to hook an ankle or invade the center.

From the earhook, Sarovy gathered that the lancers were on their way.  That was good, but there was no direct route from the Civic Wedge to West Ridge; the cliffs of Old Crown stood in the way.  They would have to follow the riverside road all the way around.

He cursed himself for not dispatching them immediately, but he had expected a strike on the garrison and maybe assaults along the route.  It would not be difficult for a Shadow group to take down his lancers if they were without a mage.

Trapped
, yammered his fear, but he squelched it.  There had to be a way.

His gaze lit upon a standing column.

Wide concrete cylinders, they matched the foundation.  He had seen their like in old ogrish ruins and the broken aqueducts of Kanrodi—and, more recently, in the deeper storage facilities of the Shadow Cult—but the column the militiamen had hammered down was unusual.  Bent by the weight of the collapsed floor but not broken, it had metal bars in it.

The standing one was the same.  Sturdy, able to retain its shape.  But heavy.

“Magus Voorkei, Lieutenant Vrallek, I need your attention,” he said.

Despite the clash of metal on metal and the roars, the shouts, the crashing debris, Vrallek heard him.  In a moment the big ugly ruengriin was at his side, ruddy face made redder by many seeping wounds.  Blood coated his chestplate, likely his own, but his starburst eyes held the hard, fierce light of battle.  “Captain,” he slurred through ragged lips.

Voorkei backed toward them, not taking his eyes from the ward above, and gave a brief nod.

“We need to get to the next floor, but we don't have mages enough to construct and hold stairs.  Voorkei, can your magic cut concrete?”

“Er?  Yes?”

“Vrallek, your ruengriin are very strong.”

“Heh.”

“Cut that column at the base.  Ruengriin haul it to the wall, lean it under an opening.  We either chop footholds or the mages do something.  We go up to the opening.  Understood?”

Magus Voorkei glanced at him, brows arched like startled black caterpillars, then said, “Ward avove us vill fail if I svitch.”

“Give it to Tanvolthene.  Tanvolthene!  Man the ward!  Everyone!  On the defensive!”

A ragged cry rose from the soldiers.  Sneering his amusement, Vrallek sent up his own roar of, “Specialists, to me!” and strode through the ranks, shield-slamming a resurgent elemental from his way like batting down a mannequin.  Magus Voorkei shot Sarovy a dubious look then scuttled after him, the ruengriin accreting around the pair as the rest of the men closed ranks.