Alton debated whether or not to give up and return to his uncle’s tent when, like the shot of an arrow, silver lines streaked beneath his hands, forming glistening runes which swirled to life around the cracks, only to vanish in the blink of an eye.
Startled, he jumped backward, looking wildly about the wall for another sign, but finding nothing.
“Did you see that?” he demanded of Sergeant Uxton.
“See what, my lord?”
“The—” He stopped. The sergeant waited, watching intently. How could the sergeant have missed the flash of runes? Unless . . .
My imagination? I wished to see it?
He placed his hands against the wall again, cajoling, wishing, and even cursing, but the wall revealed nothing. After a half hour of this, Alton pulled away, disgusted with himself for thinking he alone would discover the secrets of the wall.
He turned his back to it and stalked toward the tent village with Sergeant Uxton in tow, the wall rearing up ominously behind them. Then someone cried out in fear and Alton whirled just in time to see a large dark shape winging toward him.
BLACKVEIL
The sentience awoke to silence. The voices that entrapped it were strangely absent, focused elsewhere.
Cautiously, it extended a thread of awareness, gently probing through the forest, remaining as tiny and inconspicuous as possible so as not to alarm its guardians.
It slipped along the slime trail of a glistening slug for a short distance. It hid beneath rocks, and tunneled in the damp underground as a blind mole.
Warm blood gushed through the mole’s body, pumped by its heart in a rhythmic throb the sentience found oddly comforting and familiar. The mole burrowed deeper, using its powerful shoulders and spadelike front feet to shovel aside soil.
It stopped abruptly, and twitched its nose. The sentience felt its hunger, and with unthinking instinct, it gnashed at something soft, damp, and wriggly.
Repulsed, the sentience expelled itself from the mole and traced its way back through the tunnel.
What am I? What am I that I have no beating heart? No pulsing blood?
The mole had a body, but it was a dim, stupid creature that relied on instinct.
I am no such creature. Perhaps I am the air that fills the creature’s lungs.
This did not seem correct either. The air could not be trapped this way, trapped behind walls and barriers.
The sentience resurfaced to the world above as moisture sucked from the ground by the roots of a limp, dark fern. It joined with an insect, which sped away on buzzing wings. Through multifaceted eyes, it spotted a young avian tearing into the carcass of some unfortunate prey animal, gulping down flesh to bulge out its sinuous, scaled neck.
The insect alighted on the avian to feed on its blood, giving the the sentience an opportunity to transfer itself to a new host. The avian flapped its wings in agitation at the intrusion, but the sentience stayed quiet, sensing the creature’s hunger and lust for blood, feeling the warmth of its prey easing down its gullet and into its gnawing stomach.
The avian was merely base instinct, aware of nothing but its own needs, a vicious creature on all counts, its very heart dark. The sentience decided to seize control of it.
The avian struggled mightily, waving its head back and forth and squawking in protest, but it did not take long for the sentience to overcome its small mind.
Through the eyes of the avian, the world of the sentience’s confinement sharpened—the contrast of dark tree shadows and gray mist, logs decaying into duff, insects hovering in the dim light, the fuzz of mosses carpeting the ground. Something slurped into a black pool, piquing the avian’s interest, and registering “prey” in its mind.
The sentience stilled the avian’s predatory excitement, and again sent out a pinpoint of awareness through the forest. The guardians had not yet noted its wakefulness. Something else had taken their attention; they strained to reach out to the other side of the wall.
Intrigued by their preoccupation, the sentience, too, wished to see the other side of the wall.
It released a measure of control over the avian so it could fly. The avian stretched its wings, flapped, and spiraled upward through the trees, deftly missing entwined branches, and surged above the canopy. Thick mist enclosed the forest below, except for the spires of tree tops poking through. Even above the forest, the mist was still thick, banishing the sun to a murky white disk.
The sentience forced the avian unwaveringly northward, toward the wall, seeking the place where it had once detected weakness.
It wasn’t long before the layers of mist peeled away, revealing the wall directly ahead. The avian wheeled away, barely in time to avoid a collision. The sentience reined the creature into a glide, the wall swirling past its wingtip.
A brightness shone where there should have been wall, signaling the place of weakness. The sentience forced the avian to land on the broken wall, talons scrabbling on stone as it backwinged. The avian extended its serpentine neck, and with a blink, peered to the other side.
The sunlight, so unfamiliar to the creature, was too bright. It dropped nictitating membranes over its eyes to protect them.
A myriad of structures billowing in the wind filled the world below, and moving among them were many creatures.
Men, came the unbidden memory.
They were scattered everywhere, these men, milling, moving, thriving. There was a power here, too. A power reminiscent of that which entrapped the sentience. Somewhere among these men, there was one who could speak with the guardians, one who could fix the weakness in the wall. One who could seal off the sentience’s prison forever.
Hunger roiled in the avian’s belly, and its gaze settled on the back of one who walked away from the wall.
The guardians chose that moment to become alert to the sentience’s wakefulness. Alarm buzzed through the wall and beneath the avian’s talons. Startled, the avian flapped its wings and launched into the air.
Come back to us, ancient one, the voices called.
Overcome, the sentience lost control of the avian. The creature angled its wings for maximum speed and soared toward the man’s back, talons extended.
Men pointed and shouted. The man turned, eyes wide as it took in the avian arrowing in on him. He dropped on the ground just in time to evade talons.
The guardians screamed at the sentience, or maybe it was the wind screaming past the ears of the avian. The sentience could make no sense of it. The billowing structures—tents—were but blurs below. Men scattered in all directions, yelling and running in confusion.
Fear radiating from so much available prey aroused the avian’s predatory hunger to a new height. It turned on a wingtip, screaming for blood, bearing down again on the man, but this time he held a shiny object.
Sword.
The sentience wanted to avert the avian’s mad flight, but the guardians distracted it with their songs of peace and contentment, and promises of tranquil slumbering. All it had to do was return; return to the other side of the wall and end the struggle. Just rest. Rest and sleep . . .
The avian circled above the man, flicking its forked tongue, before stooping into a dive.
The man did not cower but slashed with his blade, cutting the avian above its talon.
PAIN! RAGE! REVENGE!
Maddened, the creature surged upward with great wing-strokes to gain altitude for another diving attack. A projectile whizzed by its head.
Stupid creature, the sentience thought, fighting the grogginess brought on by the guardians. With a mighty effort, it again exerted its will into the avian’s mind.
Survival, it urged the avian, fearing for its own survival should the avian be killed. Seek safety.
The avian tossed its head and screeched in angry resistance, and pursued prey.
This time it hunted for one without defense. Men scattered as it skimmed above their heads, and it lunged upon one who could not run fast enough. The man—no, woman—loosed a bloodcurdling screa
m as talons sank into her shoulders.
HUNGER!
The avian attempted to carry the woman away, but its wings had not the strength. It dropped her, and landed atop her back, spreading its wings over her to protect its prey from interlopers, screeching threats at the men who rushed toward it with shining, sharp weapons.
Survival! the sentience screamed in the avian’s mind, but the scent of warm blood overcame all else. It reared its head back, ready to lunge its raptor’s beak into the whimpering prey beneath it for the kill.
Fly! Survival! Panic allowed the sentience to exert the whole of its will upon the avian.
SURVIVAL—FOOD!
The men had projectile weapons among them, but the sentience comprehended their fear of using them lest they inadvertently kill the woman. They feared the avian, too. The sentience encouraged the avian in a fierce display to keep the men off.
The man the avian had attacked initially advanced with grim resolve. He wore green, and this sparked some memory of hatred.
The avian recognized him, too, saw its own black blood on his blade, and remembered pain. It launched from the woman.
Yes, survival, the sentience crooned. Safety.
The avian started winging toward the gap in the wall.
And now the guardians welcomed the sentience’s return in song, Come back to us, ancient one, come sleep in peace. . .
A volley of arrows hissed past the avian, arcing over the wall. The avian swung its head around to screech at the men below.
Safety, the sentience urged. Seek safety.
Just as the avian glided through the gap in the wall, there came another flight of arrows. A barbed head drove into the avian’s side, tearing muscle and tendon, crushing bone, piercing lung.
The avian careened into the mist of the forest and plummeted, trees coming at it in a mad rush. It crashed through branches. Wing bones snapped. It hit one bough, and tumbled to another, until finally it fell into a heap on the ground.
There it lay with neck limp, and wings splayed and rumpled. Nictitating eyelids peeled back, and the avian drew one last rattling breath.
The sentience flowed from the avian in its blood, soaking into the moss beneath. Exhausted by its striv ings with both the avian and the guardians, it let itself be drawn into sleep with one final lingering thought: What am I?
Journal of Hadriax el Fex
The clans have proven more difficult to subdue than we originally perceived. They will hear nothing of joining the Empire, and refuse conversion to the one God. They have even sneaked into our camps and stolen supplies, thinking it great fun to accomplish this beneath the noses of a superior race of people.
Alessandros’ answer to their treachery was to lead a raid into one of the nearby villages to make an example. Their heathen altar was destroyed and the moon priest burned to death. We then set about torching their longhouses, where families remained huddled inside in fear. It was nasty work, but needful.
The village warriors were fierce, but we made quick work of them with our concussives. Alessandros is pleased with the day’s events. Now, he believes, the other villages and clan chiefs will see their folly in opposing the Empire.
I, for one, am relieved our stockade is nearly completed.
SWORDPLAY
Captain Mapstone dipped her pen into the inkwell, but paused before signing off on the sheaf of papers before her.
“Is there anything else you wanted to add to the report?”
“I think that’s all.” Karigan hoped the captain didn’t detect any hesitance in her voice.
“I know it hasn’t been easy regurgitating those terrible events over and over, but the king appreciates your efforts to provide a detailed and accurate record.”
Karigan nodded, glancing down at her hands folded across her lap. She had stood before the king and his inner circle three times to be grilled about the delegation’s journey and its disastrous end. The king’s advisors thrust question after question at her.
Why did you believe the clearing was unsafe?
Where were you when the fighting broke out?
Why do you think the Eletian wanted to speak to you?
Why didn’t you join the main body of the fighting?
The king questioned her more quietly, more gently than his advisors, as if more sensitive to what she had endured. More than he spoke, even, he listened. He listened intently to her answers, or perhaps “intensely” was a better description. He sat there on his throne, his chin propped on steepled fingers, his eyes focused on her as though he could discern more from watching her closely than by simply listening.
The questioning had gone on for hours each time, with no one any more satisfied than when they had begun.
Now Karigan sat in Captain Mapstone’s quarters going over the whole thing once again. The captain hadn’t exactly grilled her, after all she’d been present during the other questionings, but she wished to verify the events as described in Karigan’s written report.
Every time Karigan had to revisit that night of terror by the cairn, images of carnage flashed back to her. So did images of broken shackles on a funerary slab, and the wraith pointing its bony finger at her, its voice rasping, “Betrayer.”
She tried to answer the questions as thoroughly as possible, but one thing she did hold back, even from the captain, was the failure of her special ability during the battle. She didn’t know why she didn’t—couldn’t—bring it up. Maybe it was shame, or maybe she felt the problem would rectify itself in time. Maybe she was too frightened to admit aloud her ability had failed her.
There had been a time when she wished her ability would go away forever so she could have the life she planned for herself, but now that it had, it unnerved her. Something had changed, and whether her lack of ability was a personal failing, or something else was going on in the world, it couldn’t mean anything good—could it?
For now she would keep it to herself. There was no use in getting anyone overly concerned in case it was nothing.
“Karigan?”
She shook herself from her reverie. “No, Captain, I really can’t think of anything else to add.” She hoped the captain interpreted her long silence as a pause to go over events in her mind, as if searching for something new.
The captain nodded in satisfaction and signed off on the report. With a tinge of guilt, Karigan knew the captain would not call on her own ability to check the honesty of her words. She trusted her Riders.
The captain set her pen down and turned to gaze squarely at Karigan. “I want you to know how very proud the king and I are of your actions while you were with the delegation. Major Everson was so impressed with your comportment during the ride home, he has offered to sponsor you into the light cavalry.”
The distaste must have been so evident on Karigan’s face, that Captain Mapstone, absently fingering the ragged brown scar that slashed down her neck, said, “I take it you’re not interested.”
“If I had a choice of going anywhere, I’d return to my clan,” Karigan replied, “but I don’t think the call would let me go. Not even to join the light cavalry.”
Captain Mapstone looked positively relieved—she’d actually been worried! Her hand fell away from her scar. “I would hate to lose you,” she said in a quiet voice. “I think you have developed into a fine Green Rider.”
Karigan tried to look anywhere but at the captain. She glanced down at her hands again, over at the map spread on the captain’s worktable, its curling edges held down by a half-filled mug of cold tea and a crust of bread, and at the shelves on the far wall piled with books. Pleasure and guilt both warmed her cheeks. Pleasure at receiving a rare bit of praise from the captain whom she respected. Guilt of being unworthy because she had never truly embraced being a Green Rider.
The captain sighed. “The business of the kingdom does go on, and so does the king’s correspondence. If you are feeling up to it, I’d like to ease you back into the work schedule. No strenuous or lengthy rides to begin wit
h, just some simple, short-range message errands to help you catch your wind again. What do you think?”
“I’m ready.” Karigan had been back a couple weeks now and was itching to return to work. Currently she had too much free time to think about things, those terrible things that had happened to the delegation. The loss of her colleagues who were also friends.
Captain Mapstone smiled. “Excellent. I’ll let Mara know. You are dismissed.”
Karigan decided to stroll about the castle grounds to stretch her legs after her long session with Captain Mapstone. The wind blew through her unbound hair. The afternoon sky was fair, but the clouds and a change in wind direction indicated the weather might take a new tack by daybreak.
She wandered by the barracks of the regular militia, and the outdoor riding arena where horses and riders alike were trained. Sometimes contests of fighting and riding skill were held here, where various divisions of the military competed against one another. The competitions were friendly, but serious. No division wished to experience the dishonor of losing.
Some members of the light cavalry were currently using the arena to exercise their horses. Karigan shook her head, unable to imagine herself in the deep navy uniform and wearing a helm with a ridiculous red plume. Even if the Rider call released her, she had no desire to serve with a bunch of aristocrats, who during their escort duty of the remnant delegation spent their evenings in their tents, sipping brandy and being attended to by servants, while the delegation’s survivors—many exhausted and injured—slept fitfully on the bare ground.
No, she could not serve with a group for which she held so little respect.
She walked on, passing stables and more barracks, the parade field, and the quartermaster’s storehouses. All the while, the castle stood tall and imperious to her left. The castle was huge, and its grounds vast, once garrisoning hundreds upon hundreds of troops and other inhabitants. Those days were long ago, in less peaceful times.
Though the grounds were fairly quiet, she did find two men in sword combat practice on a field set aside for such training.